text.txt file translation
The
one
opened
the
door
with
a
latch-key
and
went
in
, followed
by
a
young
fellow
who
awkwardly
removed
his
cap
. He
wore
rough
clothes
that
smacked
of
the
sea
, and
he
was
manifestly
out
of
place
in
the
spacious
hall
in
which
he
found
himself
. He
did
not
know
what
to
do
with
his
cap
, and
was
stuffing
it
into
his
coat
pocket
when
the
other
took
it
from
him
. The
act
was
done
quietly
and
naturally
, and
the
awkward
young
fellow
appreciated
it
. “He
understands
,”
was
his
thought
. “He’ll
see
me
through
all
right
.”
He
walked
at
the
other’s
heels
with
a
swing
to
his
shoulders
, and
his
legs
spread
unwittingly
, as
if
the
level
floors
were
tilting
up
and
sinking
down
to
the
heave
and
lunge
of
the
sea
. The
wide
rooms
seemed
too
narrow
for
his
rolling
gait
, and
to
himself
he
was
in
terror
lest
his
broad
shoulders
should
collide
with
the
doorways
or
sweep
the
bric-a-brac
from
the
low
mantel
. He
recoiled
from
side
to
side
between
the
various
objects
and
multiplied
the
hazards
that
in
reality
lodged
only
in
his
mind
. Between
a
grand
piano
and
a
centre-table
piled
high
with
books
was
space
for
a
half
a
dozen
to
walk
abreast
, yet
he
essayed
it
with
trepidation
. His
heavy
arms
hung
loosely
at
his
sides
. He
did
not
know
what
to
do
with
those
arms
and
hands
, and
when
, to
his
excited
vision
, one
arm
seemed
liable
to
brush
against
the
books
on
the
table
,
he
lurched
away
like
a
frightened
horse
, barely
missing
the
piano
stool
. He
watched
the
easy
walk
of
the
other
in
front
of
him
, and
for
the
first
time
realized
that
his
walk
was
different
from
that
of
other
men
. He
experienced
a
momentary
pang
of
shame
that
he
should
walk
so
uncouthly
. The
sweat
burst
through
the
skin
of
his
forehead
in
tiny
beads
, and
he
paused
and
mopped
his
bronzed
face
with
his
handkerchief
.
“Hold
on
, Arthur
, my
boy
,”
he
said
, attempting
to
mask
his
anxiety
with
facetious
utterance
. “This
is
too
much
all
at
once
for
yours
truly
.
Give
me
a
chance
to
get
my
nerve
. You
know
I
didn’t
want
to
come
, an’
I
guess
your
fam’ly
ain’t
hankerin’
to
see
me
neither
.”
“That’s
all
right
,”
was
the
reassuring
answer
. “You
mustn’t
be
frightened
at
us
. We’re
just
homely
people—Hello
, there’s
a
letter
for
me
.”
He
stepped
back
to
the
table
, tore
open
the
envelope
, and
began
to
read
, giving
the
stranger
an
opportunity
to
recover
himself
. And
the
stranger
understood
and
appreciated
. His
was
the
gift
of
sympathy
,
understanding
; and
beneath
his
alarmed
exterior
that
sympathetic
process
went
on
. He
mopped
his
forehead
dry
and
glanced
about
him
with
a
controlled
face
, though
in
the
eyes
there
was
an
expression
such
as
wild
animals
betray
when
they
fear
the
trap
. He
was
surrounded
by
the
unknown
, apprehensive
of
what
might
happen
, ignorant
of
what
he
should
do
, aware
that
he
walked
and
bore
himself
awkwardly
, fearful
that
every
attribute
and
power
of
him
was
similarly
afflicted
. He
was
keenly
sensitive
, hopelessly
self-conscious
, and
the
amused
glance
that
the
other
stole
privily
at
him
over
the
top
of
the
letter
burned
into
him
like
a
dagger-thrust
. He
saw
the
glance
, but
he
gave
no
sign
, for
among
the
things
he
had
learned
was
discipline
. Also
, that
dagger-thrust
went
to
his
pride
. He
cursed
himself
for
having
come
, and
at
the
same
time
resolved
that
, happen
what
would
, having
come
, he
would
carry
it
through
. The
lines
of
his
face
hardened
, and
into
his
eyes
came
a
fighting
light
. He
looked
about
more
unconcernedly
, sharply
observant
,
every
detail
of
the
pretty
interior
registering
itself
on
his
brain
.
His
eyes
were
wide
apart
; nothing
in
their
field
of
vision
escaped
; and
as
they
drank
in
the
beauty
before
them
the
fighting
light
died
out
and
a
warm
glow
took
its
place
. He
was
responsive
to
beauty
, and
here
was
cause
to
respond
.
An
oil
painting
caught
and
held
him
. A
heavy
surf
thundered
and
burst
over
an
outjutting
rock
; lowering
storm-clouds
covered
the
sky
; and
,
outside
the
line
of
surf
, a
pilot-schooner
, close-hauled
, heeled
over
till
every
detail
of
her
deck
was
visible
, was
surging
along
against
a
stormy
sunset
sky
. There
was
beauty
, and
it
drew
him
irresistibly
. He
forgot
his
awkward
walk
and
came
closer
to
the
painting
, very
close
.
The
beauty
faded
out
of
the
canvas
. His
face
expressed
his
bepuzzlement
. He
stared
at
what
seemed
a
careless
daub
of
paint
, then
stepped
away
. Immediately
all
the
beauty
flashed
back
into
the
canvas
.
“A
trick
picture
,”
was
his
thought
, as
he
dismissed
it
, though
in
the
midst
of
the
multitudinous
impressions
he
was
receiving
he
found
time
to
feel
a
prod
of
indignation
that
so
much
beauty
should
be
sacrificed
to
make
a
trick
. He
did
not
know
painting
. He
had
been
brought
up
on
chromos
and
lithographs
that
were
always
definite
and
sharp
, near
or
far
. He
had
seen
oil
paintings
, it
was
true
, in
the
show
windows
of
shops
, but
the
glass
of
the
windows
had
prevented
his
eager
eyes
from
approaching
too
near
.
He
glanced
around
at
his
friend
reading
the
letter
and
saw
the
books
on
the
table
. Into
his
eyes
leaped
a
wistfulness
and
a
yearning
as
promptly
as
the
yearning
leaps
into
the
eyes
of
a
starving
man
at
sight
of
food
. An
impulsive
stride
, with
one
lurch
to
right
and
left
of
the
shoulders
, brought
him
to
the
table
, where
he
began
affectionately
handling
the
books
. He
glanced
at
the
titles
and
the
authors’
names
,
read
fragments
of
text
, caressing
the
volumes
with
his
eyes
and
hands
,
and
, once
, recognized
a
book
he
had
read
. For
the
rest
, they
were
strange
books
and
strange
authors
. He
chanced
upon
a
volume
of
Swinburne
and
began
reading
steadily
, forgetful
of
where
he
was
, his
face
glowing
. Twice
he
closed
the
book
on
his
forefinger
to
look
at
the
name
of
the
author
. Swinburne
! he
would
remember
that
name
. That
fellow
had
eyes
, and
he
had
certainly
seen
color
and
flashing
light
. But
who
was
Swinburne
? Was
he
dead
a
hundred
years
or
so
, like
most
of
the
poets
? Or
was
he
alive
still
, and
writing
? He
turned
to
the
title-page
. . . yes
, he
had
written
other
books
; well
, he
would
go
to
the
free
library
the
first
thing
in
the
morning
and
try
to
get
hold
of
some
of
Swinburne’s
stuff
. He
went
back
to
the
text
and
lost
himself
. He
did
not
notice
that
a
young
woman
had
entered
the
room
. The
first
he
knew
was
when
he
heard
Arthur’s
voice
saying
:-
“Ruth
, this
is
Mr
. Eden
.”
The
book
was
closed
on
his
forefinger
, and
before
he
turned
he
was
thrilling
to
the
first
new
impression
, which
was
not
of
the
girl
, but
of
her
brother’s
words
. Under
that
muscled
body
of
his
he
was
a
mass
of
quivering
sensibilities
. At
the
slightest
impact
of
the
outside
world
upon
his
consciousness
, his
thoughts
, sympathies
, and
emotions
leapt
and
played
like
lambent
flame
. He
was
extraordinarily
receptive
and
responsive
, while
his
imagination
, pitched
high
, was
ever
at
work
establishing
relations
of
likeness
and
difference
. “Mr
. Eden
,”
was
what
he
had
thrilled
to—he
who
had
been
called
“Eden
,”
or
“Martin
Eden
,”
or
just
“Martin
,”
all
his
life
. And
“_Mister_
!”
It
was
certainly
going
some
, was
his
internal
comment
. His
mind
seemed
to
turn
, on
the
instant
, into
a
vast
camera
obscura
, and
he
saw
arrayed
around
his
consciousness
endless
pictures
from
his
life
, of
stoke-holes
and
forecastles
, camps
and
beaches
, jails
and
boozing-kens
, fever-hospitals
and
slum
streets
, wherein
the
thread
of
association
was
the
fashion
in
which
he
had
been
addressed
in
those
various
situations
.
And
then
he
turned
and
saw
the
girl
. The
phantasmagoria
of
his
brain
vanished
at
sight
of
her
. She
was
a
pale
, ethereal
creature
, with
wide
,
spiritual
blue
eyes
and
a
wealth
of
golden
hair
. He
did
not
know
how
she
was
dressed
, except
that
the
dress
was
as
wonderful
as
she
. He
likened
her
to
a
pale
gold
flower
upon
a
slender
stem
. No
, she
was
a
spirit
, a
divinity
, a
goddess
; such
sublimated
beauty
was
not
of
the
earth
. Or
perhaps
the
books
were
right
, and
there
were
many
such
as
she
in
the
upper
walks
of
life
. She
might
well
be
sung
by
that
chap
,
Swinburne
. Perhaps
he
had
had
somebody
like
her
in
mind
when
he
painted
that
girl
, Iseult
, in
the
book
there
on
the
table
. All
this
plethora
of
sight
, and
feeling
, and
thought
occurred
on
the
instant
. There
was
no
pause
of
the
realities
wherein
he
moved
. He
saw
her
hand
coming
out
to
his
, and
she
looked
him
straight
in
the
eyes
as
she
shook
hands
,
frankly
, like
a
man
. The
women
he
had
known
did
not
shake
hands
that
way
. For
that
matter
, most
of
them
did
not
shake
hands
at
all
. A
flood
of
associations
, visions
of
various
ways
he
had
made
the
acquaintance
of
women
, rushed
into
his
mind
and
threatened
to
swamp
it
. But
he
shook
them
aside
and
looked
at
her
. Never
had
he
seen
such
a
woman
. The
women
he
had
known
! Immediately
, beside
her
, on
either
hand
, ranged
the
women
he
had
known
. For
an
eternal
second
he
stood
in
the
midst
of
a
portrait
gallery
, wherein
she
occupied
the
central
place
, while
about
her
were
limned
many
women
, all
to
be
weighed
and
measured
by
a
fleeting
glance
,
herself
the
unit
of
weight
and
measure
. He
saw
the
weak
and
sickly
faces
of
the
girls
of
the
factories
, and
the
simpering
, boisterous
girls
from
the
south
of
Market
. There
were
women
of
the
cattle
camps
,
and
swarthy
cigarette-smoking
women
of
Old
Mexico
. These
, in
turn
, were
crowded
out
by
Japanese
women
, doll-like
, stepping
mincingly
on
wooden
clogs
; by
Eurasians
, delicate
featured
, stamped
with
degeneracy
; by
full-bodied
South-Sea-Island
women
, flower-crowned
and
brown-skinned
.
All
these
were
blotted
out
by
a
grotesque
and
terrible
nightmare
brood—frowsy
, shuffling
creatures
from
the
pavements
of
Whitechapel
,
gin-bloated
hags
of
the
stews
, and
all
the
vast
hell’s
following
of
harpies
, vile-mouthed
and
filthy
, that
under
the
guise
of
monstrous
female
form
prey
upon
sailors
, the
scrapings
of
the
ports
, the
scum
and
slime
of
the
human
pit
.
“Won’t
you
sit
down
, Mr
. Eden
?”
the
girl
was
saying
. “I
have
been
looking
forward
to
meeting
you
ever
since
Arthur
told
us
. It
was
brave
of
you—”
He
waved
his
hand
deprecatingly
and
muttered
that
it
was
nothing
at
all
, what
he
had
done
, and
that
any
fellow
would
have
done
it
. She
noticed
that
the
hand
he
waved
was
covered
with
fresh
abrasions
, in
the
process
of
healing
, and
a
glance
at
the
other
loose-hanging
hand
showed
it
to
be
in
the
same
condition
. Also
, with
quick
, critical
eye
, she
noted
a
scar
on
his
cheek
, another
that
peeped
out
from
under
the
hair
of
the
forehead
, and
a
third
that
ran
down
and
disappeared
under
the
starched
collar
. She
repressed
a
smile
at
sight
of
the
red
line
that
marked
the
chafe
of
the
collar
against
the
bronzed
neck
. He
was
evidently
unused
to
stiff
collars
. Likewise
her
feminine
eye
took
in
the
clothes
he
wore
, the
cheap
and
unaesthetic
cut
, the
wrinkling
of
the
coat
across
the
shoulders
, and
the
series
of
wrinkles
in
the
sleeves
that
advertised
bulging
biceps
muscles
.
While
he
waved
his
hand
and
muttered
that
he
had
done
nothing
at
all
,
he
was
obeying
her
behest
by
trying
to
get
into
a
chair
. He
found
time
to
admire
the
ease
with
which
she
sat
down
, then
lurched
toward
a
chair
facing
her
, overwhelmed
with
consciousness
of
the
awkward
figure
he
was
cutting
. This
was
a
new
experience
for
him
. All
his
life
, up
to
then
,
he
had
been
unaware
of
being
either
graceful
or
awkward
. Such
thoughts
of
self
had
never
entered
his
mind
. He
sat
down
gingerly
on
the
edge
of
the
chair
, greatly
worried
by
his
hands
. They
were
in
the
way
wherever
he
put
them
. Arthur
was
leaving
the
room
, and
Martin
Eden
followed
his
exit
with
longing
eyes
. He
felt
lost
, alone
there
in
the
room
with
that
pale
spirit
of
a
woman
. There
was
no
bar-keeper
upon
whom
to
call
for
drinks
, no
small
boy
to
send
around
the
corner
for
a
can
of
beer
and
by
means
of
that
social
fluid
start
the
amenities
of
friendship
flowing
.
“You
have
such
a
scar
on
your
neck
, Mr
. Eden
,”
the
girl
was
saying
.
“How
did
it
happen
? I
am
sure
it
must
have
been
some
adventure
.”
“A
Mexican
with
a
knife
, miss
,”
he
answered
, moistening
his
parched
lips
and
clearing
his
throat
. “It
was
just
a
fight
. After
I
got
the
knife
away
, he
tried
to
bite
off
my
nose
.”
Baldly
as
he
had
stated
it
, in
his
eyes
was
a
rich
vision
of
that
hot
,
starry
night
at
Salina
Cruz
, the
white
strip
of
beach
, the
lights
of
the
sugar
steamers
in
the
harbor
, the
voices
of
the
drunken
sailors
in
the
distance
, the
jostling
stevedores
, the
flaming
passion
in
the
Mexican’s
face
, the
glint
of
the
beast-eyes
in
the
starlight
, the
sting
of
the
steel
in
his
neck
, and
the
rush
of
blood
, the
crowd
and
the
cries
, the
two
bodies
, his
and
the
Mexican’s
, locked
together
, rolling
over
and
over
and
tearing
up
the
sand
, and
from
away
off
somewhere
the
mellow
tinkling
of
a
guitar
. Such
was
the
picture
, and
he
thrilled
to
the
memory
of
it
, wondering
if
the
man
could
paint
it
who
had
painted
the
pilot-schooner
on
the
wall
. The
white
beach
, the
stars
, and
the
lights
of
the
sugar
steamers
would
look
great
, he
thought
, and
midway
on
the
sand
the
dark
group
of
figures
that
surrounded
the
fighters
. The
knife
occupied
a
place
in
the
picture
, he
decided
, and
would
show
well
,
with
a
sort
of
gleam
, in
the
light
of
the
stars
. But
of
all
this
no
hint
had
crept
into
his
speech
. “He
tried
to
bite
off
my
nose
,”
he
concluded
.
“Oh
,”
the
girl
said
, in
a
faint
, far
voice
, and
he
noticed
the
shock
in
her
sensitive
face
.
He
felt
a
shock
himself
, and
a
blush
of
embarrassment
shone
faintly
on
his
sunburned
cheeks
, though
to
him
it
burned
as
hotly
as
when
his
cheeks
had
been
exposed
to
the
open
furnace-door
in
the
fire-room
. Such
sordid
things
as
stabbing
affrays
were
evidently
not
fit
subjects
for
conversation
with
a
lady
. People
in
the
books
, in
her
walk
of
life
, did
not
talk
about
such
things—perhaps
they
did
not
know
about
them
,
either
.
There
was
a
brief
pause
in
the
conversation
they
were
trying
to
get
started
. Then
she
asked
tentatively
about
the
scar
on
his
cheek
. Even
as
she
asked
, he
realized
that
she
was
making
an
effort
to
talk
his
talk
, and
he
resolved
to
get
away
from
it
and
talk
hers
.
“It
was
just
an
accident
,”
he
said
, putting
his
hand
to
his
cheek
. “One
night
, in
a
calm
, with
a
heavy
sea
running
, the
main-boom-lift
carried
away
, an’
next
the
tackle
. The
lift
was
wire
, an’
it
was
threshin’
around
like
a
snake
. The
whole
watch
was
tryin’
to
grab
it
, an’
I
rushed
in
an’
got
swatted
.”
“Oh
,”
she
said
, this
time
with
an
accent
of
comprehension
, though
secretly
his
speech
had
been
so
much
Greek
to
her
and
she
was
wondering
what
a
_lift_
was
and
what
_swatted_
meant
.
“This
man
Swineburne
,”
he
began
, attempting
to
put
his
plan
into
execution
and
pronouncing
the
_i_
long
.
“Who
?”
“Swineburne
,”
he
repeated
, with
the
same
mispronunciation
. “The
poet
.”
“Swinburne
,”
she
corrected
.
“Yes
, that’s
the
chap
,”
he
stammered
, his
cheeks
hot
again
. “How
long
since
he
died
?”
“Why
, I
haven’t
heard
that
he
was
dead
.”
She
looked
at
him
curiously
.
“Where
did
you
make
his
acquaintance
?”
“I
never
clapped
eyes
on
him
,”
was
the
reply
. “But
I
read
some
of
his
poetry
out
of
that
book
there
on
the
table
just
before
you
come
in
. How
do
you
like
his
poetry
?”
And
thereat
she
began
to
talk
quickly
and
easily
upon
the
subject
he
had
suggested
. He
felt
better
, and
settled
back
slightly
from
the
edge
of
the
chair
, holding
tightly
to
its
arms
with
his
hands
, as
if
it
might
get
away
from
him
and
buck
him
to
the
floor
. He
had
succeeded
in
making
her
talk
her
talk
, and
while
she
rattled
on
, he
strove
to
follow
her
, marvelling
at
all
the
knowledge
that
was
stowed
away
in
that
pretty
head
of
hers
, and
drinking
in
the
pale
beauty
of
her
face
.
Follow
her
he
did
, though
bothered
by
unfamiliar
words
that
fell
glibly
from
her
lips
and
by
critical
phrases
and
thought-processes
that
were
foreign
to
his
mind
, but
that
nevertheless
stimulated
his
mind
and
set
it
tingling
. Here
was
intellectual
life
, he
thought
, and
here
was
beauty
, warm
and
wonderful
as
he
had
never
dreamed
it
could
be
. He
forgot
himself
and
stared
at
her
with
hungry
eyes
. Here
was
something
to
live
for
, to
win
to
, to
fight
for—ay
, and
die
for
. The
books
were
true
. There
were
such
women
in
the
world
. She
was
one
of
them
. She
lent
wings
to
his
imagination
, and
great
, luminous
canvases
spread
themselves
before
him
whereon
loomed
vague
, gigantic
figures
of
love
and
romance
, and
of
heroic
deeds
for
woman’s
sake—for
a
pale
woman
, a
flower
of
gold
. And
through
the
swaying
, palpitant
vision
, as
through
a
fairy
mirage
, he
stared
at
the
real
woman
, sitting
there
and
talking
of
literature
and
art
. He
listened
as
well
, but
he
stared
, unconscious
of
the
fixity
of
his
gaze
or
of
the
fact
that
all
that
was
essentially
masculine
in
his
nature
was
shining
in
his
eyes
. But
she
, who
knew
little
of
the
world
of
men
, being
a
woman
, was
keenly
aware
of
his
burning
eyes
. She
had
never
had
men
look
at
her
in
such
fashion
, and
it
embarrassed
her
. She
stumbled
and
halted
in
her
utterance
. The
thread
of
argument
slipped
from
her
. He
frightened
her
, and
at
the
same
time
it
was
strangely
pleasant
to
be
so
looked
upon
. Her
training
warned
her
of
peril
and
of
wrong
, subtle
, mysterious
, luring
; while
her
instincts
rang
clarion-voiced
through
her
being
, impelling
her
to
hurdle
caste
and
place
and
gain
to
this
traveller
from
another
world
, to
this
uncouth
young
fellow
with
lacerated
hands
and
a
line
of
raw
red
caused
by
the
unaccustomed
linen
at
his
throat
, who
, all
too
evidently
, was
soiled
and
tainted
by
ungracious
existence
. She
was
clean
, and
her
cleanness
revolted
; but
she
was
woman
, and
she
was
just
beginning
to
learn
the
paradox
of
woman
.
“As
I
was
saying—what
was
I
saying
?”
She
broke
off
abruptly
and
laughed
merrily
at
her
predicament
.
“You
was
saying
that
this
man
Swinburne
failed
bein’
a
great
poet
because—an’
that
was
as
far
as
you
got
, miss
,”
he
prompted
, while
to
himself
he
seemed
suddenly
hungry
, and
delicious
little
thrills
crawled
up
and
down
his
spine
at
the
sound
of
her
laughter
. Like
silver
, he
thought
to
himself
, like
tinkling
silver
bells
; and
on
the
instant
, and
for
an
instant
, he
was
transported
to
a
far
land
, where
under
pink
cherry
blossoms
, he
smoked
a
cigarette
and
listened
to
the
bells
of
the
peaked
pagoda
calling
straw-sandalled
devotees
to
worship
.
“Yes
, thank
you
,”
she
said
. “Swinburne
fails
, when
all
is
said
, because
he
is
, well
, indelicate
. There
are
many
of
his
poems
that
should
never
be
read
. Every
line
of
the
really
great
poets
is
filled
with
beautiful
truth
, and
calls
to
all
that
is
high
and
noble
in
the
human
. Not
a
line
of
the
great
poets
can
be
spared
without
impoverishing
the
world
by
that
much
.”
“I
thought
it
was
great
,”
he
said
hesitatingly
, “the
little
I
read
. I
had
no
idea
he
was
such
a—a
scoundrel
. I
guess
that
crops
out
in
his
other
books
.”
“There
are
many
lines
that
could
be
spared
from
the
book
you
were
reading
,”
she
said
, her
voice
primly
firm
and
dogmatic
.
“I
must
’a’
missed
’em
,”
he
announced
. “What
I
read
was
the
real
goods
.
It
was
all
lighted
up
an’
shining
, an’
it
shun
right
into
me
an’
lighted
me
up
inside
, like
the
sun
or
a
searchlight
. That’s
the
way
it
landed
on
me
, but
I
guess
I
ain’t
up
much
on
poetry
, miss
.”
He
broke
off
lamely
. He
was
confused
, painfully
conscious
of
his
inarticulateness
. He
had
felt
the
bigness
and
glow
of
life
in
what
he
had
read
, but
his
speech
was
inadequate
. He
could
not
express
what
he
felt
, and
to
himself
he
likened
himself
to
a
sailor
, in
a
strange
ship
,
on
a
dark
night
, groping
about
in
the
unfamiliar
running
rigging
. Well
,
he
decided
, it
was
up
to
him
to
get
acquainted
in
this
new
world
. He
had
never
seen
anything
that
he
couldn’t
get
the
hang
of
when
he
wanted
to
and
it
was
about
time
for
him
to
want
to
learn
to
talk
the
things
that
were
inside
of
him
so
that
she
could
understand
. _She_
was
bulking
large
on
his
horizon
.
“Now
Longfellow—”
she
was
saying
.
“Yes
, I’ve
read
’m
,”
he
broke
in
impulsively
, spurred
on
to
exhibit
and
make
the
most
of
his
little
store
of
book
knowledge
, desirous
of
showing
her
that
he
was
not
wholly
a
stupid
clod
. “‘The
Psalm
of
Life
,’
‘Excelsior
,’
an’
. . . I
guess
that’s
all
.”
She
nodded
her
head
and
smiled
, and
he
felt
, somehow
, that
her
smile
was
tolerant
, pitifully
tolerant
. He
was
a
fool
to
attempt
to
make
a
pretence
that
way
. That
Longfellow
chap
most
likely
had
written
countless
books
of
poetry
.
“Excuse
me
, miss
, for
buttin’
in
that
way
. I
guess
the
real
facts
is
that
I
don’t
know
nothin’
much
about
such
things
. It
ain’t
in
my
class
.
But
I’m
goin’
to
make
it
in
my
class
.”
It
sounded
like
a
threat
. His
voice
was
determined
, his
eyes
were
flashing
, the
lines
of
his
face
had
grown
harsh
. And
to
her
it
seemed
that
the
angle
of
his
jaw
had
changed
; its
pitch
had
become
unpleasantly
aggressive
. At
the
same
time
a
wave
of
intense
virility
seemed
to
surge
out
from
him
and
impinge
upon
her
.
“I
think
you
could
make
it
in—in
your
class
,”
she
finished
with
a
laugh
. “You
are
very
strong
.”
Her
gaze
rested
for
a
moment
on
the
muscular
neck
, heavy
corded
, almost
bull-like
, bronzed
by
the
sun
, spilling
over
with
rugged
health
and
strength
. And
though
he
sat
there
, blushing
and
humble
, again
she
felt
drawn
to
him
. She
was
surprised
by
a
wanton
thought
that
rushed
into
her
mind
. It
seemed
to
her
that
if
she
could
lay
her
two
hands
upon
that
neck
that
all
its
strength
and
vigor
would
flow
out
to
her
. She
was
shocked
by
this
thought
. It
seemed
to
reveal
to
her
an
undreamed
depravity
in
her
nature
. Besides
, strength
to
her
was
a
gross
and
brutish
thing
. Her
ideal
of
masculine
beauty
had
always
been
slender
gracefulness
. Yet
the
thought
still
persisted
. It
bewildered
her
that
she
should
desire
to
place
her
hands
on
that
sunburned
neck
. In
truth
,
she
was
far
from
robust
, and
the
need
of
her
body
and
mind
was
for
strength
. But
she
did
not
know
it
. She
knew
only
that
no
man
had
ever
affected
her
before
as
this
one
had
, who
shocked
her
from
moment
to
moment
with
his
awful
grammar
.
“Yes
, I
ain’t
no
invalid
,”
he
said
. “When
it
comes
down
to
hard-pan
, I
can
digest
scrap-iron
. But
just
now
I’ve
got
dyspepsia
. Most
of
what
you
was
sayin’
I
can’t
digest
. Never
trained
that
way
, you
see
. I
like
books
and
poetry
, and
what
time
I’ve
had
I’ve
read
’em
, but
I’ve
never
thought
about
’em
the
way
you
have
. That’s
why
I
can’t
talk
about
’em
.
I’m
like
a
navigator
adrift
on
a
strange
sea
without
chart
or
compass
.
Now
I
want
to
get
my
bearin’s
. Mebbe
you
can
put
me
right
. How
did
you
learn
all
this
you’ve
ben
talkin’
?”
“By
going
to
school
, I
fancy
, and
by
studying
,”
she
answered
.
“I
went
to
school
when
I
was
a
kid
,”
he
began
to
object
.
“Yes
; but
I
mean
high
school
, and
lectures
, and
the
university
.”
“You’ve
gone
to
the
university
?”
he
demanded
in
frank
amazement
. He
felt
that
she
had
become
remoter
from
him
by
at
least
a
million
miles
.
“I’m
going
there
now
. I’m
taking
special
courses
in
English
.”
He
did
not
know
what
“English”
meant
, but
he
made
a
mental
note
of
that
item
of
ignorance
and
passed
on
.
“How
long
would
I
have
to
study
before
I
could
go
to
the
university
?”
he
asked
.
She
beamed
encouragement
upon
his
desire
for
knowledge
, and
said
: “That
depends
upon
how
much
studying
you
have
already
done
. You
have
never
attended
high
school
? Of
course
not
. But
did
you
finish
grammar
school
?”
“I
had
two
years
to
run
, when
I
left
,”
he
answered
. “But
I
was
always
honorably
promoted
at
school
.”
The
next
moment
, angry
with
himself
for
the
boast
, he
had
gripped
the
arms
of
the
chair
so
savagely
that
every
finger-end
was
stinging
. At
the
same
moment
he
became
aware
that
a
woman
was
entering
the
room
. He
saw
the
girl
leave
her
chair
and
trip
swiftly
across
the
floor
to
the
newcomer
. They
kissed
each
other
, and
, with
arms
around
each
other’s
waists
, they
advanced
toward
him
. That
must
be
her
mother
, he
thought
.
She
was
a
tall
, blond
woman
, slender
, and
stately
, and
beautiful
. Her
gown
was
what
he
might
expect
in
such
a
house
. His
eyes
delighted
in
the
graceful
lines
of
it
. She
and
her
dress
together
reminded
him
of
women
on
the
stage
. Then
he
remembered
seeing
similar
grand
ladies
and
gowns
entering
the
London
theatres
while
he
stood
and
watched
and
the
policemen
shoved
him
back
into
the
drizzle
beyond
the
awning
. Next
his
mind
leaped
to
the
Grand
Hotel
at
Yokohama
, where
, too
, from
the
sidewalk
, he
had
seen
grand
ladies
. Then
the
city
and
the
harbor
of
Yokohama
, in
a
thousand
pictures
, began
flashing
before
his
eyes
. But
he
swiftly
dismissed
the
kaleidoscope
of
memory
, oppressed
by
the
urgent
need
of
the
present
. He
knew
that
he
must
stand
up
to
be
introduced
, and
he
struggled
painfully
to
his
feet
, where
he
stood
with
trousers
bagging
at
the
knees
, his
arms
loose-hanging
and
ludicrous
,
his
face
set
hard
for
the
impending
ordeal
.
CHAPTER
II
.
The
process
of
getting
into
the
dining
room
was
a
nightmare
to
him
.
Between
halts
and
stumbles
, jerks
and
lurches
, locomotion
had
at
times
seemed
impossible
. But
at
last
he
had
made
it
, and
was
seated
alongside
of
Her
. The
array
of
knives
and
forks
frightened
him
. They
bristled
with
unknown
perils
, and
he
gazed
at
them
, fascinated
, till
their
dazzle
became
a
background
across
which
moved
a
succession
of
forecastle
pictures
, wherein
he
and
his
mates
sat
eating
salt
beef
with
sheath-knives
and
fingers
, or
scooping
thick
pea-soup
out
of
pannikins
by
means
of
battered
iron
spoons
. The
stench
of
bad
beef
was
in
his
nostrils
, while
in
his
ears
, to
the
accompaniment
of
creaking
timbers
and
groaning
bulkheads
, echoed
the
loud
mouth-noises
of
the
eaters
. He
watched
them
eating
, and
decided
that
they
ate
like
pigs
. Well
, he
would
be
careful
here
. He
would
make
no
noise
. He
would
keep
his
mind
upon
it
all
the
time
.
He
glanced
around
the
table
. Opposite
him
was
Arthur
, and
Arthur’s
brother
, Norman
. They
were
her
brothers
, he
reminded
himself
, and
his
heart
warmed
toward
them
. How
they
loved
each
other
, the
members
of
this
family
! There
flashed
into
his
mind
the
picture
of
her
mother
, of
the
kiss
of
greeting
, and
of
the
pair
of
them
walking
toward
him
with
arms
entwined
. Not
in
his
world
were
such
displays
of
affection
between
parents
and
children
made
. It
was
a
revelation
of
the
heights
of
existence
that
were
attained
in
the
world
above
. It
was
the
finest
thing
yet
that
he
had
seen
in
this
small
glimpse
of
that
world
. He
was
moved
deeply
by
appreciation
of
it
, and
his
heart
was
melting
with
sympathetic
tenderness
. He
had
starved
for
love
all
his
life
. His
nature
craved
love
. It
was
an
organic
demand
of
his
being
. Yet
he
had
gone
without
, and
hardened
himself
in
the
process
. He
had
not
known
that
he
needed
love
. Nor
did
he
know
it
now
. He
merely
saw
it
in
operation
, and
thrilled
to
it
, and
thought
it
fine
, and
high
, and
splendid
.
He
was
glad
that
Mr
. Morse
was
not
there
. It
was
difficult
enough
getting
acquainted
with
her
, and
her
mother
, and
her
brother
, Norman
.
Arthur
he
already
knew
somewhat
. The
father
would
have
been
too
much
for
him
, he
felt
sure
. It
seemed
to
him
that
he
had
never
worked
so
hard
in
his
life
. The
severest
toil
was
child’s
play
compared
with
this
. Tiny
nodules
of
moisture
stood
out
on
his
forehead
, and
his
shirt
was
wet
with
sweat
from
the
exertion
of
doing
so
many
unaccustomed
things
at
once
. He
had
to
eat
as
he
had
never
eaten
before
, to
handle
strange
tools
, to
glance
surreptitiously
about
and
learn
how
to
accomplish
each
new
thing
, to
receive
the
flood
of
impressions
that
was
pouring
in
upon
him
and
being
mentally
annotated
and
classified
; to
be
conscious
of
a
yearning
for
her
that
perturbed
him
in
the
form
of
a
dull
, aching
restlessness
; to
feel
the
prod
of
desire
to
win
to
the
walk
in
life
whereon
she
trod
, and
to
have
his
mind
ever
and
again
straying
off
in
speculation
and
vague
plans
of
how
to
reach
to
her
.
Also
, when
his
secret
glance
went
across
to
Norman
opposite
him
, or
to
any
one
else
, to
ascertain
just
what
knife
or
fork
was
to
be
used
in
any
particular
occasion
, that
person’s
features
were
seized
upon
by
his
mind
, which
automatically
strove
to
appraise
them
and
to
divine
what
they
were—all
in
relation
to
her
. Then
he
had
to
talk
, to
hear
what
was
said
to
him
and
what
was
said
back
and
forth
, and
to
answer
, when
it
was
necessary
, with
a
tongue
prone
to
looseness
of
speech
that
required
a
constant
curb
. And
to
add
confusion
to
confusion
, there
was
the
servant
, an
unceasing
menace
, that
appeared
noiselessly
at
his
shoulder
, a
dire
Sphinx
that
propounded
puzzles
and
conundrums
demanding
instantaneous
solution
. He
was
oppressed
throughout
the
meal
by
the
thought
of
finger-bowls
. Irrelevantly
, insistently
, scores
of
times
, he
wondered
when
they
would
come
on
and
what
they
looked
like
.
He
had
heard
of
such
things
, and
now
, sooner
or
later
, somewhere
in
the
next
few
minutes
, he
would
see
them
, sit
at
table
with
exalted
beings
who
used
them—ay
, and
he
would
use
them
himself
. And
most
important
of
all
, far
down
and
yet
always
at
the
surface
of
his
thought
, was
the
problem
of
how
he
should
comport
himself
toward
these
persons
. What
should
his
attitude
be
? He
wrestled
continually
and
anxiously
with
the
problem
. There
were
cowardly
suggestions
that
he
should
make
believe
,
assume
a
part
; and
there
were
still
more
cowardly
suggestions
that
warned
him
he
would
fail
in
such
course
, that
his
nature
was
not
fitted
to
live
up
to
it
, and
that
he
would
make
a
fool
of
himself
.
It
was
during
the
first
part
of
the
dinner
, struggling
to
decide
upon
his
attitude
, that
he
was
very
quiet
. He
did
not
know
that
his
quietness
was
giving
the
lie
to
Arthur’s
words
of
the
day
before
, when
that
brother
of
hers
had
announced
that
he
was
going
to
bring
a
wild
man
home
to
dinner
and
for
them
not
to
be
alarmed
, because
they
would
find
him
an
interesting
wild
man
. Martin
Eden
could
not
have
found
it
in
him
, just
then
, to
believe
that
her
brother
could
be
guilty
of
such
treachery—especially
when
he
had
been
the
means
of
getting
this
particular
brother
out
of
an
unpleasant
row
. So
he
sat
at
table
,
perturbed
by
his
own
unfitness
and
at
the
same
time
charmed
by
all
that
went
on
about
him
. For
the
first
time
he
realized
that
eating
was
something
more
than
a
utilitarian
function
. He
was
unaware
of
what
he
ate
. It
was
merely
food
. He
was
feasting
his
love
of
beauty
at
this
table
where
eating
was
an
aesthetic
function
. It
was
an
intellectual
function
, too
. His
mind
was
stirred
. He
heard
words
spoken
that
were
meaningless
to
him
, and
other
words
that
he
had
seen
only
in
books
and
that
no
man
or
woman
he
had
known
was
of
large
enough
mental
caliber
to
pronounce
. When
he
heard
such
words
dropping
carelessly
from
the
lips
of
the
members
of
this
marvellous
family
, her
family
, he
thrilled
with
delight
. The
romance
, and
beauty
, and
high
vigor
of
the
books
were
coming
true
. He
was
in
that
rare
and
blissful
state
wherein
a
man
sees
his
dreams
stalk
out
from
the
crannies
of
fantasy
and
become
fact
.
Never
had
he
been
at
such
an
altitude
of
living
, and
he
kept
himself
in
the
background
, listening
, observing
, and
pleasuring
, replying
in
reticent
monosyllables
, saying
, “Yes
, miss
,”
and
“No
, miss
,”
to
her
,
and
“Yes
, ma’am
,”
and
“No
, ma’am
,”
to
her
mother
. He
curbed
the
impulse
, arising
out
of
his
sea-training
, to
say
“Yes
, sir
,”
and
“No
,
sir
,”
to
her
brothers
. He
felt
that
it
would
be
inappropriate
and
a
confession
of
inferiority
on
his
part—which
would
never
do
if
he
was
to
win
to
her
. Also
, it
was
a
dictate
of
his
pride
. “By
God
!”
he
cried
to
himself
, once
; “I’m
just
as
good
as
them
, and
if
they
do
know
lots
that
I
don’t
, I
could
learn
’m
a
few
myself
, all
the
same
!”
And
the
next
moment
, when
she
or
her
mother
addressed
him
as
“Mr
. Eden
,”
his
aggressive
pride
was
forgotten
, and
he
was
glowing
and
warm
with
delight
. He
was
a
civilized
man
, that
was
what
he
was
, shoulder
to
shoulder
, at
dinner
, with
people
he
had
read
about
in
books
. He
was
in
the
books
himself
, adventuring
through
the
printed
pages
of
bound
volumes
.
But
while
he
belied
Arthur’s
description
, and
appeared
a
gentle
lamb
rather
than
a
wild
man
, he
was
racking
his
brains
for
a
course
of
action
. He
was
no
gentle
lamb
, and
the
part
of
second
fiddle
would
never
do
for
the
high-pitched
dominance
of
his
nature
. He
talked
only
when
he
had
to
, and
then
his
speech
was
like
his
walk
to
the
table
,
filled
with
jerks
and
halts
as
he
groped
in
his
polyglot
vocabulary
for
words
, debating
over
words
he
knew
were
fit
but
which
he
feared
he
could
not
pronounce
, rejecting
other
words
he
knew
would
not
be
understood
or
would
be
raw
and
harsh
. But
all
the
time
he
was
oppressed
by
the
consciousness
that
this
carefulness
of
diction
was
making
a
booby
of
him
, preventing
him
from
expressing
what
he
had
in
him
. Also
,
his
love
of
freedom
chafed
against
the
restriction
in
much
the
same
way
his
neck
chafed
against
the
starched
fetter
of
a
collar
. Besides
, he
was
confident
that
he
could
not
keep
it
up
. He
was
by
nature
powerful
of
thought
and
sensibility
, and
the
creative
spirit
was
restive
and
urgent
. He
was
swiftly
mastered
by
the
concept
or
sensation
in
him
that
struggled
in
birth-throes
to
receive
expression
and
form
, and
then
he
forgot
himself
and
where
he
was
, and
the
old
words—the
tools
of
speech
he
knew—slipped
out
.
Once
, he
declined
something
from
the
servant
who
interrupted
and
pestered
at
his
shoulder
, and
he
said
, shortly
and
emphatically
, “Pow
!”
On
the
instant
those
at
the
table
were
keyed
up
and
expectant
, the
servant
was
smugly
pleased
, and
he
was
wallowing
in
mortification
. But
he
recovered
himself
quickly
.
“It’s
the
Kanaka
for
‘finish
,’”
he
explained
, “and
it
just
come
out
naturally
. It’s
spelt
p-a-u
.”
He
caught
her
curious
and
speculative
eyes
fixed
on
his
hands
, and
,
being
in
explanatory
mood
, he
said
:-
“I
just
come
down
the
Coast
on
one
of
the
Pacific
mail
steamers
. She
was
behind
time
, an’
around
the
Puget
Sound
ports
we
worked
like
niggers
, storing
cargo—mixed
freight
, if
you
know
what
that
means
.
That’s
how
the
skin
got
knocked
off
.”
“Oh
, it
wasn’t
that
,”
she
hastened
to
explain
, in
turn
. “Your
hands
seemed
too
small
for
your
body
.”
His
cheeks
were
hot
. He
took
it
as
an
exposure
of
another
of
his
deficiencies
.
“Yes
,”
he
said
depreciatingly
. “They
ain’t
big
enough
to
stand
the
strain
. I
can
hit
like
a
mule
with
my
arms
and
shoulders
. They
are
too
strong
, an’
when
I
smash
a
man
on
the
jaw
the
hands
get
smashed
, too
.”
He
was
not
happy
at
what
he
had
said
. He
was
filled
with
disgust
at
himself
. He
had
loosed
the
guard
upon
his
tongue
and
talked
about
things
that
were
not
nice
.
“It
was
brave
of
you
to
help
Arthur
the
way
you
did—and
you
a
stranger
,”
she
said
tactfully
, aware
of
his
discomfiture
though
not
of
the
reason
for
it
.
He
, in
turn
, realized
what
she
had
done
, and
in
the
consequent
warm
surge
of
gratefulness
that
overwhelmed
him
forgot
his
loose-worded
tongue
.
“It
wasn’t
nothin’
at
all
,”
he
said
. “Any
guy
’ud
do
it
for
another
.
That
bunch
of
hoodlums
was
lookin’
for
trouble
, an’
Arthur
wasn’t
botherin’
’em
none
. They
butted
in
on
’m
, an’
then
I
butted
in
on
them
an’
poked
a
few
. That’s
where
some
of
the
skin
off
my
hands
went
, along
with
some
of
the
teeth
of
the
gang
. I
wouldn’t
’a’
missed
it
for
anything
. When
I
seen—”
He
paused
, open-mouthed
, on
the
verge
of
the
pit
of
his
own
depravity
and
utter
worthlessness
to
breathe
the
same
air
she
did
. And
while
Arthur
took
up
the
tale
, for
the
twentieth
time
, of
his
adventure
with
the
drunken
hoodlums
on
the
ferry-boat
and
of
how
Martin
Eden
had
rushed
in
and
rescued
him
, that
individual
, with
frowning
brows
,
meditated
upon
the
fool
he
had
made
of
himself
, and
wrestled
more
determinedly
with
the
problem
of
how
he
should
conduct
himself
toward
these
people
. He
certainly
had
not
succeeded
so
far
. He
wasn’t
of
their
tribe
, and
he
couldn’t
talk
their
lingo
, was
the
way
he
put
it
to
himself
. He
couldn’t
fake
being
their
kind
. The
masquerade
would
fail
,
and
besides
, masquerade
was
foreign
to
his
nature
. There
was
no
room
in
him
for
sham
or
artifice
. Whatever
happened
, he
must
be
real
. He
couldn’t
talk
their
talk
just
yet
, though
in
time
he
would
. Upon
that
he
was
resolved
. But
in
the
meantime
, talk
he
must
, and
it
must
be
his
own
talk
, toned
down
, of
course
, so
as
to
be
comprehensible
to
them
and
so
as
not
to
shock
them
too
much
. And
furthermore
, he
wouldn’t
claim
,
not
even
by
tacit
acceptance
, to
be
familiar
with
anything
that
was
unfamiliar
. In
pursuance
of
this
decision
, when
the
two
brothers
,
talking
university
shop
, had
used
“trig”
several
times
, Martin
Eden
demanded
:-
“What
is
_trig_
?”
“Trignometry
,”
Norman
said
; “a
higher
form
of
math
.”
“And
what
is
math
?”
was
the
next
question
, which
, somehow
, brought
the
laugh
on
Norman
.
“Mathematics
, arithmetic
,”
was
the
answer
.
Martin
Eden
nodded
. He
had
caught
a
glimpse
of
the
apparently
illimitable
vistas
of
knowledge
. What
he
saw
took
on
tangibility
. His
abnormal
power
of
vision
made
abstractions
take
on
concrete
form
. In
the
alchemy
of
his
brain
, trigonometry
and
mathematics
and
the
whole
field
of
knowledge
which
they
betokened
were
transmuted
into
so
much
landscape
. The
vistas
he
saw
were
vistas
of
green
foliage
and
forest
glades
, all
softly
luminous
or
shot
through
with
flashing
lights
. In
the
distance
, detail
was
veiled
and
blurred
by
a
purple
haze
, but
behind
this
purple
haze
, he
knew
, was
the
glamour
of
the
unknown
, the
lure
of
romance
. It
was
like
wine
to
him
. Here
was
adventure
, something
to
do
with
head
and
hand
, a
world
to
conquer—and
straightway
from
the
back
of
his
consciousness
rushed
the
thought
, _conquering
, to
win
to
her
, that
lily-pale
spirit
sitting
beside
him_
.
The
glimmering
vision
was
rent
asunder
and
dissipated
by
Arthur
, who
,
all
evening
, had
been
trying
to
draw
his
wild
man
out
. Martin
Eden
remembered
his
decision
. For
the
first
time
he
became
himself
,
consciously
and
deliberately
at
first
, but
soon
lost
in
the
joy
of
creating
in
making
life
as
he
knew
it
appear
before
his
listeners’
eyes
. He
had
been
a
member
of
the
crew
of
the
smuggling
schooner
_Halcyon_
when
she
was
captured
by
a
revenue
cutter
. He
saw
with
wide
eyes
, and
he
could
tell
what
he
saw
. He
brought
the
pulsing
sea
before
them
, and
the
men
and
the
ships
upon
the
sea
. He
communicated
his
power
of
vision
, till
they
saw
with
his
eyes
what
he
had
seen
. He
selected
from
the
vast
mass
of
detail
with
an
artist’s
touch
, drawing
pictures
of
life
that
glowed
and
burned
with
light
and
color
, injecting
movement
so
that
his
listeners
surged
along
with
him
on
the
flood
of
rough
eloquence
, enthusiasm
, and
power
. At
times
he
shocked
them
with
the
vividness
of
the
narrative
and
his
terms
of
speech
, but
beauty
always
followed
fast
upon
the
heels
of
violence
, and
tragedy
was
relieved
by
humor
, by
interpretations
of
the
strange
twists
and
quirks
of
sailors’
minds
.
And
while
he
talked
, the
girl
looked
at
him
with
startled
eyes
. His
fire
warmed
her
. She
wondered
if
she
had
been
cold
all
her
days
. She
wanted
to
lean
toward
this
burning
, blazing
man
that
was
like
a
volcano
spouting
forth
strength
, robustness
, and
health
. She
felt
that
she
must
lean
toward
him
, and
resisted
by
an
effort
. Then
, too
, there
was
the
counter
impulse
to
shrink
away
from
him
. She
was
repelled
by
those
lacerated
hands
, grimed
by
toil
so
that
the
very
dirt
of
life
was
ingrained
in
the
flesh
itself
, by
that
red
chafe
of
the
collar
and
those
bulging
muscles
. His
roughness
frightened
her
; each
roughness
of
speech
was
an
insult
to
her
ear
, each
rough
phase
of
his
life
an
insult
to
her
soul
. And
ever
and
again
would
come
the
draw
of
him
, till
she
thought
he
must
be
evil
to
have
such
power
over
her
. All
that
was
most
firmly
established
in
her
mind
was
rocking
. His
romance
and
adventure
were
battering
at
the
conventions
. Before
his
facile
perils
and
ready
laugh
, life
was
no
longer
an
affair
of
serious
effort
and
restraint
,
but
a
toy
, to
be
played
with
and
turned
topsy-turvy
, carelessly
to
be
lived
and
pleasured
in
, and
carelessly
to
be
flung
aside
. “Therefore
,
play
!”
was
the
cry
that
rang
through
her
. “Lean
toward
him
, if
so
you
will
, and
place
your
two
hands
upon
his
neck
!”
She
wanted
to
cry
out
at
the
recklessness
of
the
thought
, and
in
vain
she
appraised
her
own
cleanness
and
culture
and
balanced
all
that
she
was
against
what
he
was
not
. She
glanced
about
her
and
saw
the
others
gazing
at
him
with
rapt
attention
; and
she
would
have
despaired
had
not
she
seen
horror
in
her
mother’s
eyes—fascinated
horror
, it
was
true
, but
none
the
less
horror
.
This
man
from
outer
darkness
was
evil
. Her
mother
saw
it
, and
her
mother
was
right
. She
would
trust
her
mother’s
judgment
in
this
as
she
had
always
trusted
it
in
all
things
. The
fire
of
him
was
no
longer
warm
, and
the
fear
of
him
was
no
longer
poignant
.
Later
, at
the
piano
, she
played
for
him
, and
at
him
, aggressively
, with
the
vague
intent
of
emphasizing
the
impassableness
of
the
gulf
that
separated
them
. Her
music
was
a
club
that
she
swung
brutally
upon
his
head
; and
though
it
stunned
him
and
crushed
him
down
, it
incited
him
.
He
gazed
upon
her
in
awe
. In
his
mind
, as
in
her
own
, the
gulf
widened
;
but
faster
than
it
widened
, towered
his
ambition
to
win
across
it
. But
he
was
too
complicated
a
plexus
of
sensibilities
to
sit
staring
at
a
gulf
a
whole
evening
, especially
when
there
was
music
. He
was
remarkably
susceptible
to
music
. It
was
like
strong
drink
, firing
him
to
audacities
of
feeling
,—a
drug
that
laid
hold
of
his
imagination
and
went
cloud-soaring
through
the
sky
. It
banished
sordid
fact
, flooded
his
mind
with
beauty
, loosed
romance
and
to
its
heels
added
wings
. He
did
not
understand
the
music
she
played
. It
was
different
from
the
dance-hall
piano-banging
and
blatant
brass
bands
he
had
heard
. But
he
had
caught
hints
of
such
music
from
the
books
, and
he
accepted
her
playing
largely
on
faith
, patiently
waiting
, at
first
, for
the
lilting
measures
of
pronounced
and
simple
rhythm
, puzzled
because
those
measures
were
not
long
continued
. Just
as
he
caught
the
swing
of
them
and
started
, his
imagination
attuned
in
flight
, always
they
vanished
away
in
a
chaotic
scramble
of
sounds
that
was
meaningless
to
him
, and
that
dropped
his
imagination
, an
inert
weight
, back
to
earth
.
Once
, it
entered
his
mind
that
there
was
a
deliberate
rebuff
in
all
this
. He
caught
her
spirit
of
antagonism
and
strove
to
divine
the
message
that
her
hands
pronounced
upon
the
keys
. Then
he
dismissed
the
thought
as
unworthy
and
impossible
, and
yielded
himself
more
freely
to
the
music
. The
old
delightful
condition
began
to
be
induced
. His
feet
were
no
longer
clay
, and
his
flesh
became
spirit
; before
his
eyes
and
behind
his
eyes
shone
a
great
glory
; and
then
the
scene
before
him
vanished
and
he
was
away
, rocking
over
the
world
that
was
to
him
a
very
dear
world
. The
known
and
the
unknown
were
commingled
in
the
dream-pageant
that
thronged
his
vision
. He
entered
strange
ports
of
sun-washed
lands
, and
trod
market-places
among
barbaric
peoples
that
no
man
had
ever
seen
. The
scent
of
the
spice
islands
was
in
his
nostrils
as
he
had
known
it
on
warm
, breathless
nights
at
sea
, or
he
beat
up
against
the
southeast
trades
through
long
tropic
days
, sinking
palm-tufted
coral
islets
in
the
turquoise
sea
behind
and
lifting
palm-tufted
coral
islets
in
the
turquoise
sea
ahead
. Swift
as
thought
the
pictures
came
and
went
. One
instant
he
was
astride
a
broncho
and
flying
through
the
fairy-colored
Painted
Desert
country
; the
next
instant
he
was
gazing
down
through
shimmering
heat
into
the
whited
sepulchre
of
Death
Valley
, or
pulling
an
oar
on
a
freezing
ocean
where
great
ice
islands
towered
and
glistened
in
the
sun
. He
lay
on
a
coral
beach
where
the
cocoanuts
grew
down
to
the
mellow-sounding
surf
. The
hulk
of
an
ancient
wreck
burned
with
blue
fires
, in
the
light
of
which
danced
the
_hula_
dancers
to
the
barbaric
love-calls
of
the
singers
,
who
chanted
to
tinkling
_ukuleles_
and
rumbling
tom-toms
. It
was
a
sensuous
, tropic
night
. In
the
background
a
volcano
crater
was
silhouetted
against
the
stars
. Overhead
drifted
a
pale
crescent
moon
,
and
the
Southern
Cross
burned
low
in
the
sky
.
He
was
a
harp
; all
life
that
he
had
known
and
that
was
his
consciousness
was
the
strings
; and
the
flood
of
music
was
a
wind
that
poured
against
those
strings
and
set
them
vibrating
with
memories
and
dreams
. He
did
not
merely
feel
. Sensation
invested
itself
in
form
and
color
and
radiance
, and
what
his
imagination
dared
, it
objectified
in
some
sublimated
and
magic
way
. Past
, present
, and
future
mingled
; and
he
went
on
oscillating
across
the
broad
, warm
world
, through
high
adventure
and
noble
deeds
to
Her—ay
, and
with
her
, winning
her
, his
arm
about
her
, and
carrying
her
on
in
flight
through
the
empery
of
his
mind
.
And
she
, glancing
at
him
across
her
shoulder
, saw
something
of
all
this
in
his
face
. It
was
a
transfigured
face
, with
great
shining
eyes
that
gazed
beyond
the
veil
of
sound
and
saw
behind
it
the
leap
and
pulse
of
life
and
the
gigantic
phantoms
of
the
spirit
. She
was
startled
. The
raw
, stumbling
lout
was
gone
. The
ill-fitting
clothes
, battered
hands
,
and
sunburned
face
remained
; but
these
seemed
the
prison-bars
through
which
she
saw
a
great
soul
looking
forth
, inarticulate
and
dumb
because
of
those
feeble
lips
that
would
not
give
it
speech
. Only
for
a
flashing
moment
did
she
see
this
, then
she
saw
the
lout
returned
, and
she
laughed
at
the
whim
of
her
fancy
. But
the
impression
of
that
fleeting
glimpse
lingered
, and
when
the
time
came
for
him
to
beat
a
stumbling
retreat
and
go
, she
lent
him
the
volume
of
Swinburne
, and
another
of
Browning—she
was
studying
Browning
in
one
of
her
English
courses
. He
seemed
such
a
boy
, as
he
stood
blushing
and
stammering
his
thanks
, that
a
wave
of
pity
, maternal
in
its
prompting
, welled
up
in
her
. She
did
not
remember
the
lout
, nor
the
imprisoned
soul
, nor
the
man
who
had
stared
at
her
in
all
masculineness
and
delighted
and
frightened
her
.
She
saw
before
her
only
a
boy
, who
was
shaking
her
hand
with
a
hand
so
calloused
that
it
felt
like
a
nutmeg-grater
and
rasped
her
skin
, and
who
was
saying
jerkily
:-
“The
greatest
time
of
my
life
. You
see
, I
ain’t
used
to
things
. . . ”
He
looked
about
him
helplessly
. “To
people
and
houses
like
this
. It’s
all
new
to
me
, and
I
like
it
.”
“I
hope
you’ll
call
again
,”
she
said
, as
he
was
saying
good
night
to
her
brothers
.
He
pulled
on
his
cap
, lurched
desperately
through
the
doorway
, and
was
gone
.
“Well
, what
do
you
think
of
him
?”
Arthur
demanded
.
“He
is
most
interesting
, a
whiff
of
ozone
,”
she
answered
. “How
old
is
he
?”
“Twenty—almost
twenty-one
. I
asked
him
this
afternoon
. I
didn’t
think
he
was
that
young
.”
And
I
am
three
years
older
, was
the
thought
in
her
mind
as
she
kissed
her
brothers
goodnight
.
CHAPTER
III
.
As
Martin
Eden
went
down
the
steps
, his
hand
dropped
into
his
coat
pocket
. It
came
out
with
a
brown
rice
paper
and
a
pinch
of
Mexican
tobacco
, which
were
deftly
rolled
together
into
a
cigarette
. He
drew
the
first
whiff
of
smoke
deep
into
his
lungs
and
expelled
it
in
a
long
and
lingering
exhalation
. “By
God
!”
he
said
aloud
, in
a
voice
of
awe
and
wonder
. “By
God
!”
he
repeated
. And
yet
again
he
murmured
, “By
God
!”
Then
his
hand
went
to
his
collar
, which
he
ripped
out
of
the
shirt
and
stuffed
into
his
pocket
. A
cold
drizzle
was
falling
, but
he
bared
his
head
to
it
and
unbuttoned
his
vest
, swinging
along
in
splendid
unconcern
. He
was
only
dimly
aware
that
it
was
raining
. He
was
in
an
ecstasy
, dreaming
dreams
and
reconstructing
the
scenes
just
past
.
He
had
met
the
woman
at
last—the
woman
that
he
had
thought
little
about
, not
being
given
to
thinking
about
women
, but
whom
he
had
expected
, in
a
remote
way
, he
would
sometime
meet
. He
had
sat
next
to
her
at
table
. He
had
felt
her
hand
in
his
, he
had
looked
into
her
eyes
and
caught
a
vision
of
a
beautiful
spirit
;—but
no
more
beautiful
than
the
eyes
through
which
it
shone
, nor
than
the
flesh
that
gave
it
expression
and
form
. He
did
not
think
of
her
flesh
as
flesh
,—which
was
new
to
him
; for
of
the
women
he
had
known
that
was
the
only
way
he
thought
. Her
flesh
was
somehow
different
. He
did
not
conceive
of
her
body
as
a
body
, subject
to
the
ills
and
frailties
of
bodies
. Her
body
was
more
than
the
garb
of
her
spirit
. It
was
an
emanation
of
her
spirit
, a
pure
and
gracious
crystallization
of
her
divine
essence
. This
feeling
of
the
divine
startled
him
. It
shocked
him
from
his
dreams
to
sober
thought
. No
word
, no
clew
, no
hint
, of
the
divine
had
ever
reached
him
before
. He
had
never
believed
in
the
divine
. He
had
always
been
irreligious
, scoffing
good-naturedly
at
the
sky-pilots
and
their
immortality
of
the
soul
. There
was
no
life
beyond
, he
had
contended
; it
was
here
and
now
, then
darkness
everlasting
. But
what
he
had
seen
in
her
eyes
was
soul—immortal
soul
that
could
never
die
. No
man
he
had
known
, nor
any
woman
, had
given
him
the
message
of
immortality
. But
she
had
. She
had
whispered
it
to
him
the
first
moment
she
looked
at
him
.
Her
face
shimmered
before
his
eyes
as
he
walked
along
,—pale
and
serious
, sweet
and
sensitive
, smiling
with
pity
and
tenderness
as
only
a
spirit
could
smile
, and
pure
as
he
had
never
dreamed
purity
could
be
.
Her
purity
smote
him
like
a
blow
. It
startled
him
. He
had
known
good
and
bad
; but
purity
, as
an
attribute
of
existence
, had
never
entered
his
mind
. And
now
, in
her
, he
conceived
purity
to
be
the
superlative
of
goodness
and
of
cleanness
, the
sum
of
which
constituted
eternal
life
.
And
promptly
urged
his
ambition
to
grasp
at
eternal
life
. He
was
not
fit
to
carry
water
for
her—he
knew
that
; it
was
a
miracle
of
luck
and
a
fantastic
stroke
that
had
enabled
him
to
see
her
and
be
with
her
and
talk
with
her
that
night
. It
was
accidental
. There
was
no
merit
in
it
.
He
did
not
deserve
such
fortune
. His
mood
was
essentially
religious
. He
was
humble
and
meek
, filled
with
self-disparagement
and
abasement
. In
such
frame
of
mind
sinners
come
to
the
penitent
form
. He
was
convicted
of
sin
. But
as
the
meek
and
lowly
at
the
penitent
form
catch
splendid
glimpses
of
their
future
lordly
existence
, so
did
he
catch
similar
glimpses
of
the
state
he
would
gain
to
by
possessing
her
. But
this
possession
of
her
was
dim
and
nebulous
and
totally
different
from
possession
as
he
had
known
it
. Ambition
soared
on
mad
wings
, and
he
saw
himself
climbing
the
heights
with
her
, sharing
thoughts
with
her
,
pleasuring
in
beautiful
and
noble
things
with
her
. It
was
a
soul-possession
he
dreamed
, refined
beyond
any
grossness
, a
free
comradeship
of
spirit
that
he
could
not
put
into
definite
thought
. He
did
not
think
it
. For
that
matter
, he
did
not
think
at
all
. Sensation
usurped
reason
, and
he
was
quivering
and
palpitant
with
emotions
he
had
never
known
, drifting
deliciously
on
a
sea
of
sensibility
where
feeling
itself
was
exalted
and
spiritualized
and
carried
beyond
the
summits
of
life
.
He
staggered
along
like
a
drunken
man
, murmuring
fervently
aloud
: “By
God
! By
God
!”
A
policeman
on
a
street
corner
eyed
him
suspiciously
, then
noted
his
sailor
roll
.
“Where
did
you
get
it
?”
the
policeman
demanded
.
Martin
Eden
came
back
to
earth
. His
was
a
fluid
organism
, swiftly
adjustable
, capable
of
flowing
into
and
filling
all
sorts
of
nooks
and
crannies
. With
the
policeman’s
hail
he
was
immediately
his
ordinary
self
, grasping
the
situation
clearly
.
“It’s
a
beaut
, ain’t
it
?”
he
laughed
back
. “I
didn’t
know
I
was
talkin’
out
loud
.”
“You’ll
be
singing
next
,”
was
the
policeman’s
diagnosis
.
“No
, I
won’t
. Gimme
a
match
an’
I’ll
catch
the
next
car
home
.”
He
lighted
his
cigarette
, said
good
night
, and
went
on
. “Now
wouldn’t
that
rattle
you
?”
he
ejaculated
under
his
breath
. “That
copper
thought
I
was
drunk
.”
He
smiled
to
himself
and
meditated
. “I
guess
I
was
,”
he
added
; “but
I
didn’t
think
a
woman’s
face’d
do
it
.”
He
caught
a
Telegraph
Avenue
car
that
was
going
to
Berkeley
. It
was
crowded
with
youths
and
young
men
who
were
singing
songs
and
ever
and
again
barking
out
college
yells
. He
studied
them
curiously
. They
were
university
boys
. They
went
to
the
same
university
that
she
did
, were
in
her
class
socially
, could
know
her
, could
see
her
every
day
if
they
wanted
to
. He
wondered
that
they
did
not
want
to
, that
they
had
been
out
having
a
good
time
instead
of
being
with
her
that
evening
, talking
with
her
, sitting
around
her
in
a
worshipful
and
adoring
circle
. His
thoughts
wandered
on
. He
noticed
one
with
narrow-slitted
eyes
and
a
loose-lipped
mouth
. That
fellow
was
vicious
, he
decided
. On
shipboard
he
would
be
a
sneak
, a
whiner
, a
tattler
. He
, Martin
Eden
, was
a
better
man
than
that
fellow
. The
thought
cheered
him
. It
seemed
to
draw
him
nearer
to
Her
. He
began
comparing
himself
with
the
students
. He
grew
conscious
of
the
muscled
mechanism
of
his
body
and
felt
confident
that
he
was
physically
their
master
. But
their
heads
were
filled
with
knowledge
that
enabled
them
to
talk
her
talk
,—the
thought
depressed
him
. But
what
was
a
brain
for
? he
demanded
passionately
. What
they
had
done
, he
could
do
. They
had
been
studying
about
life
from
the
books
while
he
had
been
busy
living
life
. His
brain
was
just
as
full
of
knowledge
as
theirs
, though
it
was
a
different
kind
of
knowledge
. How
many
of
them
could
tie
a
lanyard
knot
, or
take
a
wheel
or
a
lookout
?
His
life
spread
out
before
him
in
a
series
of
pictures
of
danger
and
daring
, hardship
and
toil
. He
remembered
his
failures
and
scrapes
in
the
process
of
learning
. He
was
that
much
to
the
good
, anyway
. Later
on
they
would
have
to
begin
living
life
and
going
through
the
mill
as
he
had
gone
. Very
well
. While
they
were
busy
with
that
, he
could
be
learning
the
other
side
of
life
from
the
books
.
As
the
car
crossed
the
zone
of
scattered
dwellings
that
separated
Oakland
from
Berkeley
, he
kept
a
lookout
for
a
familiar
, two-story
building
along
the
front
of
which
ran
the
proud
sign
, HIGGINBOTHAM’S
CASH
STORE
. Martin
Eden
got
off
at
this
corner
. He
stared
up
for
a
moment
at
the
sign
. It
carried
a
message
to
him
beyond
its
mere
wording
. A
personality
of
smallness
and
egotism
and
petty
underhandedness
seemed
to
emanate
from
the
letters
themselves
. Bernard
Higginbotham
had
married
his
sister
, and
he
knew
him
well
. He
let
himself
in
with
a
latch-key
and
climbed
the
stairs
to
the
second
floor
.
Here
lived
his
brother-in-law
. The
grocery
was
below
. There
was
a
smell
of
stale
vegetables
in
the
air
. As
he
groped
his
way
across
the
hall
he
stumbled
over
a
toy-cart
, left
there
by
one
of
his
numerous
nephews
and
nieces
, and
brought
up
against
a
door
with
a
resounding
bang
. “The
pincher
,”
was
his
thought
; “too
miserly
to
burn
two
cents’
worth
of
gas
and
save
his
boarders’
necks
.”
He
fumbled
for
the
knob
and
entered
a
lighted
room
, where
sat
his
sister
and
Bernard
Higginbotham
. She
was
patching
a
pair
of
his
trousers
, while
his
lean
body
was
distributed
over
two
chairs
, his
feet
dangling
in
dilapidated
carpet-slippers
over
the
edge
of
the
second
chair
. He
glanced
across
the
top
of
the
paper
he
was
reading
, showing
a
pair
of
dark
, insincere
, sharp-staring
eyes
. Martin
Eden
never
looked
at
him
without
experiencing
a
sense
of
repulsion
. What
his
sister
had
seen
in
the
man
was
beyond
him
. The
other
affected
him
as
so
much
vermin
, and
always
aroused
in
him
an
impulse
to
crush
him
under
his
foot
. “Some
day
I’ll
beat
the
face
off
of
him
,”
was
the
way
he
often
consoled
himself
for
enduring
the
man’s
existence
. The
eyes
,
weasel-like
and
cruel
, were
looking
at
him
complainingly
.
“Well
,”
Martin
demanded
. “Out
with
it
.”
“I
had
that
door
painted
only
last
week
,”
Mr
. Higginbotham
half
whined
,
half
bullied
; “and
you
know
what
union
wages
are
. You
should
be
more
careful
.”
Martin
had
intended
to
reply
, but
he
was
struck
by
the
hopelessness
of
it
. He
gazed
across
the
monstrous
sordidness
of
soul
to
a
chromo
on
the
wall
. It
surprised
him
. He
had
always
liked
it
, but
it
seemed
that
now
he
was
seeing
it
for
the
first
time
. It
was
cheap
, that
was
what
it
was
, like
everything
else
in
this
house
. His
mind
went
back
to
the
house
he
had
just
left
, and
he
saw
, first
, the
paintings
, and
next
,
Her
, looking
at
him
with
melting
sweetness
as
she
shook
his
hand
at
leaving
. He
forgot
where
he
was
and
Bernard
Higginbotham’s
existence
,
till
that
gentleman
demanded
:-
“Seen
a
ghost
?”
Martin
came
back
and
looked
at
the
beady
eyes
, sneering
, truculent
,
cowardly
, and
there
leaped
into
his
vision
, as
on
a
screen
, the
same
eyes
when
their
owner
was
making
a
sale
in
the
store
below—subservient
eyes
, smug
, and
oily
, and
flattering
.
“Yes
,”
Martin
answered
. “I
seen
a
ghost
. Good
night
. Good
night
,
Gertrude
.”
He
started
to
leave
the
room
, tripping
over
a
loose
seam
in
the
slatternly
carpet
.
“Don’t
bang
the
door
,”
Mr
. Higginbotham
cautioned
him
.
He
felt
the
blood
crawl
in
his
veins
, but
controlled
himself
and
closed
the
door
softly
behind
him
.
Mr
. Higginbotham
looked
at
his
wife
exultantly
.
“He’s
ben
drinkin’
,”
he
proclaimed
in
a
hoarse
whisper
. “I
told
you
he
would
.”
She
nodded
her
head
resignedly
.
“His
eyes
was
pretty
shiny
,”
she
confessed
; “and
he
didn’t
have
no
collar
, though
he
went
away
with
one
. But
mebbe
he
didn’t
have
more’n
a
couple
of
glasses
.”
“He
couldn’t
stand
up
straight
,”
asserted
her
husband
. “I
watched
him
.
He
couldn’t
walk
across
the
floor
without
stumblin’
. You
heard
’m
yourself
almost
fall
down
in
the
hall
.”
“I
think
it
was
over
Alice’s
cart
,”
she
said
. “He
couldn’t
see
it
in
the
dark
.”
Mr
. Higginbotham’s
voice
and
wrath
began
to
rise
. All
day
he
effaced
himself
in
the
store
, reserving
for
the
evening
, with
his
family
, the
privilege
of
being
himself
.
“I
tell
you
that
precious
brother
of
yours
was
drunk
.”
His
voice
was
cold
, sharp
, and
final
, his
lips
stamping
the
enunciation
of
each
word
like
the
die
of
a
machine
. His
wife
sighed
and
remained
silent
. She
was
a
large
, stout
woman
, always
dressed
slatternly
and
always
tired
from
the
burdens
of
her
flesh
, her
work
, and
her
husband
.
“He’s
got
it
in
him
, I
tell
you
, from
his
father
,”
Mr
. Higginbotham
went
on
accusingly
. “An’
he’ll
croak
in
the
gutter
the
same
way
. You
know
that
.”
She
nodded
, sighed
, and
went
on
stitching
. They
were
agreed
that
Martin
had
come
home
drunk
. They
did
not
have
it
in
their
souls
to
know
beauty
, or
they
would
have
known
that
those
shining
eyes
and
that
glowing
face
betokened
youth’s
first
vision
of
love
.
“Settin’
a
fine
example
to
the
children
,”
Mr
. Higginbotham
snorted
,
suddenly
, in
the
silence
for
which
his
wife
was
responsible
and
which
he
resented
. Sometimes
he
almost
wished
she
would
oppose
him
more
. “If
he
does
it
again
, he’s
got
to
get
out
. Understand
! I
won’t
put
up
with
his
shinanigan—debotchin’
innocent
children
with
his
boozing
.”
Mr
.
Higginbotham
liked
the
word
, which
was
a
new
one
in
his
vocabulary
,
recently
gleaned
from
a
newspaper
column
. “That’s
what
it
is
,
debotchin’—there
ain’t
no
other
name
for
it
.”
Still
his
wife
sighed
, shook
her
head
sorrowfully
, and
stitched
on
. Mr
.
Higginbotham
resumed
the
newspaper
.
“Has
he
paid
last
week’s
board
?”
he
shot
across
the
top
of
the
newspaper
.
She
nodded
, then
added
, “He
still
has
some
money
.”
“When
is
he
goin’
to
sea
again
?”
“When
his
pay-day’s
spent
, I
guess
,”
she
answered
. “He
was
over
to
San
Francisco
yesterday
looking
for
a
ship
. But
he’s
got
money
, yet
, an’
he’s
particular
about
the
kind
of
ship
he
signs
for
.”
“It’s
not
for
a
deck-swab
like
him
to
put
on
airs
,”
Mr
. Higginbotham
snorted
. “Particular
! Him
!”
“He
said
something
about
a
schooner
that’s
gettin’
ready
to
go
off
to
some
outlandish
place
to
look
for
buried
treasure
, that
he’d
sail
on
her
if
his
money
held
out
.”
“If
he
only
wanted
to
steady
down
, I’d
give
him
a
job
drivin’
the
wagon
,”
her
husband
said
, but
with
no
trace
of
benevolence
in
his
voice
. “Tom’s
quit
.”
His
wife
looked
alarm
and
interrogation
.
“Quit
to-night
. Is
goin’
to
work
for
Carruthers
. They
paid
’m
more’n
I
could
afford
.”
“I
told
you
you’d
lose
’m
,”
she
cried
out
. “He
was
worth
more’n
you
was
giving
him
.”
“Now
look
here
, old
woman
,”
Higginbotham
bullied
, “for
the
thousandth
time
I’ve
told
you
to
keep
your
nose
out
of
the
business
. I
won’t
tell
you
again
.”
“I
don’t
care
,”
she
sniffled
. “Tom
was
a
good
boy
.”
Her
husband
glared
at
her
. This
was
unqualified
defiance
.
“If
that
brother
of
yours
was
worth
his
salt
, he
could
take
the
wagon
,”
he
snorted
.
“He
pays
his
board
, just
the
same
,”
was
the
retort
. “An’
he’s
my
brother
, an’
so
long
as
he
don’t
owe
you
money
you’ve
got
no
right
to
be
jumping
on
him
all
the
time
. I’ve
got
some
feelings
, if
I
have
been
married
to
you
for
seven
years
.”
“Did
you
tell
’m
you’d
charge
him
for
gas
if
he
goes
on
readin’
in
bed
?”
he
demanded
.
Mrs
. Higginbotham
made
no
reply
. Her
revolt
faded
away
, her
spirit
wilting
down
into
her
tired
flesh
. Her
husband
was
triumphant
. He
had
her
. His
eyes
snapped
vindictively
, while
his
ears
joyed
in
the
sniffles
she
emitted
. He
extracted
great
happiness
from
squelching
her
,
and
she
squelched
easily
these
days
, though
it
had
been
different
in
the
first
years
of
their
married
life
, before
the
brood
of
children
and
his
incessant
nagging
had
sapped
her
energy
.
“Well
, you
tell
’m
to-morrow
, that’s
all
,”
he
said
. “An’
I
just
want
to
tell
you
, before
I
forget
it
, that
you’d
better
send
for
Marian
to-morrow
to
take
care
of
the
children
. With
Tom
quit
, I’ll
have
to
be
out
on
the
wagon
, an’
you
can
make
up
your
mind
to
it
to
be
down
below
waitin’
on
the
counter
.”
“But
to-morrow’s
wash
day
,”
she
objected
weakly
.
“Get
up
early
, then
, an’
do
it
first
. I
won’t
start
out
till
ten
o’clock
.”
He
crinkled
the
paper
viciously
and
resumed
his
reading
.
CHAPTER
IV
.
Martin
Eden
, with
blood
still
crawling
from
contact
with
his
brother-in-law
, felt
his
way
along
the
unlighted
back
hall
and
entered
his
room
, a
tiny
cubbyhole
with
space
for
a
bed
, a
wash-stand
, and
one
chair
. Mr
. Higginbotham
was
too
thrifty
to
keep
a
servant
when
his
wife
could
do
the
work
. Besides
, the
servant’s
room
enabled
them
to
take
in
two
boarders
instead
of
one
. Martin
placed
the
Swinburne
and
Browning
on
the
chair
, took
off
his
coat
, and
sat
down
on
the
bed
. A
screeching
of
asthmatic
springs
greeted
the
weight
of
his
body
, but
he
did
not
notice
them
. He
started
to
take
off
his
shoes
, but
fell
to
staring
at
the
white
plaster
wall
opposite
him
, broken
by
long
streaks
of
dirty
brown
where
rain
had
leaked
through
the
roof
. On
this
befouled
background
visions
began
to
flow
and
burn
. He
forgot
his
shoes
and
stared
long
, till
his
lips
began
to
move
and
he
murmured
, “Ruth
.”
“Ruth
.”
He
had
not
thought
a
simple
sound
could
be
so
beautiful
. It
delighted
his
ear
, and
he
grew
intoxicated
with
the
repetition
of
it
.
“Ruth
.”
It
was
a
talisman
, a
magic
word
to
conjure
with
. Each
time
he
murmured
it
, her
face
shimmered
before
him
, suffusing
the
foul
wall
with
a
golden
radiance
. This
radiance
did
not
stop
at
the
wall
. It
extended
on
into
infinity
, and
through
its
golden
depths
his
soul
went
questing
after
hers
. The
best
that
was
in
him
was
out
in
splendid
flood
. The
very
thought
of
her
ennobled
and
purified
him
, made
him
better
, and
made
him
want
to
be
better
. This
was
new
to
him
. He
had
never
known
women
who
had
made
him
better
. They
had
always
had
the
counter
effect
of
making
him
beastly
. He
did
not
know
that
many
of
them
had
done
their
best
, bad
as
it
was
. Never
having
been
conscious
of
himself
, he
did
not
know
that
he
had
that
in
his
being
that
drew
love
from
women
and
which
had
been
the
cause
of
their
reaching
out
for
his
youth
. Though
they
had
often
bothered
him
, he
had
never
bothered
about
them
; and
he
would
never
have
dreamed
that
there
were
women
who
had
been
better
because
of
him
. Always
in
sublime
carelessness
had
he
lived
, till
now
, and
now
it
seemed
to
him
that
they
had
always
reached
out
and
dragged
at
him
with
vile
hands
. This
was
not
just
to
them
, nor
to
himself
. But
he
, who
for
the
first
time
was
becoming
conscious
of
himself
, was
in
no
condition
to
judge
, and
he
burned
with
shame
as
he
stared
at
the
vision
of
his
infamy
.
He
got
up
abruptly
and
tried
to
see
himself
in
the
dirty
looking-glass
over
the
wash-stand
. He
passed
a
towel
over
it
and
looked
again
, long
and
carefully
. It
was
the
first
time
he
had
ever
really
seen
himself
.
His
eyes
were
made
for
seeing
, but
up
to
that
moment
they
had
been
filled
with
the
ever
changing
panorama
of
the
world
, at
which
he
had
been
too
busy
gazing
, ever
to
gaze
at
himself
. He
saw
the
head
and
face
of
a
young
fellow
of
twenty
, but
, being
unused
to
such
appraisement
, he
did
not
know
how
to
value
it
. Above
a
square-domed
forehead
he
saw
a
mop
of
brown
hair
, nut-brown
, with
a
wave
to
it
and
hints
of
curls
that
were
a
delight
to
any
woman
, making
hands
tingle
to
stroke
it
and
fingers
tingle
to
pass
caresses
through
it
. But
he
passed
it
by
as
without
merit
, in
Her
eyes
, and
dwelt
long
and
thoughtfully
on
the
high
, square
forehead
,—striving
to
penetrate
it
and
learn
the
quality
of
its
content
. What
kind
of
a
brain
lay
behind
there
? was
his
insistent
interrogation
. What
was
it
capable
of
? How
far
would
it
take
him
? Would
it
take
him
to
her
?
He
wondered
if
there
was
soul
in
those
steel-gray
eyes
that
were
often
quite
blue
of
color
and
that
were
strong
with
the
briny
airs
of
the
sun-washed
deep
. He
wondered
, also
, how
his
eyes
looked
to
her
. He
tried
to
imagine
himself
she
, gazing
into
those
eyes
of
his
, but
failed
in
the
jugglery
. He
could
successfully
put
himself
inside
other
men’s
minds
, but
they
had
to
be
men
whose
ways
of
life
he
knew
. He
did
not
know
her
way
of
life
. She
was
wonder
and
mystery
, and
how
could
he
guess
one
thought
of
hers
? Well
, they
were
honest
eyes
, he
concluded
,
and
in
them
was
neither
smallness
nor
meanness
. The
brown
sunburn
of
his
face
surprised
him
. He
had
not
dreamed
he
was
so
black
. He
rolled
up
his
shirt-sleeve
and
compared
the
white
underside
of
the
arm
with
his
face
. Yes
, he
was
a
white
man
, after
all
. But
the
arms
were
sunburned
, too
. He
twisted
his
arm
, rolled
the
biceps
over
with
his
other
hand
, and
gazed
underneath
where
he
was
least
touched
by
the
sun
.
It
was
very
white
. He
laughed
at
his
bronzed
face
in
the
glass
at
the
thought
that
it
was
once
as
white
as
the
underside
of
his
arm
; nor
did
he
dream
that
in
the
world
there
were
few
pale
spirits
of
women
who
could
boast
fairer
or
smoother
skins
than
he—fairer
than
where
he
had
escaped
the
ravages
of
the
sun
.
His
might
have
been
a
cherub’s
mouth
, had
not
the
full
, sensuous
lips
a
trick
, under
stress
, of
drawing
firmly
across
the
teeth
. At
times
, so
tightly
did
they
draw
, the
mouth
became
stern
and
harsh
, even
ascetic
.
They
were
the
lips
of
a
fighter
and
of
a
lover
. They
could
taste
the
sweetness
of
life
with
relish
, and
they
could
put
the
sweetness
aside
and
command
life
. The
chin
and
jaw
, strong
and
just
hinting
of
square
aggressiveness
, helped
the
lips
to
command
life
. Strength
balanced
sensuousness
and
had
upon
it
a
tonic
effect
, compelling
him
to
love
beauty
that
was
healthy
and
making
him
vibrate
to
sensations
that
were
wholesome
. And
between
the
lips
were
teeth
that
had
never
known
nor
needed
the
dentist’s
care
. They
were
white
and
strong
and
regular
, he
decided
, as
he
looked
at
them
. But
as
he
looked
, he
began
to
be
troubled
. Somewhere
, stored
away
in
the
recesses
of
his
mind
and
vaguely
remembered
, was
the
impression
that
there
were
people
who
washed
their
teeth
every
day
. They
were
the
people
from
up
above—people
in
her
class
. She
must
wash
her
teeth
every
day
, too
. What
would
she
think
if
she
learned
that
he
had
never
washed
his
teeth
in
all
the
days
of
his
life
? He
resolved
to
get
a
tooth-brush
and
form
the
habit
. He
would
begin
at
once
, to-morrow
. It
was
not
by
mere
achievement
that
he
could
hope
to
win
to
her
. He
must
make
a
personal
reform
in
all
things
,
even
to
tooth-washing
and
neck-gear
, though
a
starched
collar
affected
him
as
a
renunciation
of
freedom
.
He
held
up
his
hand
, rubbing
the
ball
of
the
thumb
over
the
calloused
palm
and
gazing
at
the
dirt
that
was
ingrained
in
the
flesh
itself
and
which
no
brush
could
scrub
away
. How
different
was
her
palm
! He
thrilled
deliciously
at
the
remembrance
. Like
a
rose-petal
, he
thought
;
cool
and
soft
as
a
snowflake
. He
had
never
thought
that
a
mere
woman’s
hand
could
be
so
sweetly
soft
. He
caught
himself
imagining
the
wonder
of
a
caress
from
such
a
hand
, and
flushed
guiltily
. It
was
too
gross
a
thought
for
her
. In
ways
it
seemed
to
impugn
her
high
spirituality
. She
was
a
pale
, slender
spirit
, exalted
far
beyond
the
flesh
; but
nevertheless
the
softness
of
her
palm
persisted
in
his
thoughts
. He
was
used
to
the
harsh
callousness
of
factory
girls
and
working
women
. Well
he
knew
why
their
hands
were
rough
; but
this
hand
of
hers
. . . It
was
soft
because
she
had
never
used
it
to
work
with
. The
gulf
yawned
between
her
and
him
at
the
awesome
thought
of
a
person
who
did
not
have
to
work
for
a
living
. He
suddenly
saw
the
aristocracy
of
the
people
who
did
not
labor
. It
towered
before
him
on
the
wall
, a
figure
in
brass
,
arrogant
and
powerful
. He
had
worked
himself
; his
first
memories
seemed
connected
with
work
, and
all
his
family
had
worked
. There
was
Gertrude
.
When
her
hands
were
not
hard
from
the
endless
housework
, they
were
swollen
and
red
like
boiled
beef
, what
of
the
washing
. And
there
was
his
sister
Marian
. She
had
worked
in
the
cannery
the
preceding
summer
,
and
her
slim
, pretty
hands
were
all
scarred
with
the
tomato-knives
.
Besides
, the
tips
of
two
of
her
fingers
had
been
left
in
the
cutting
machine
at
the
paper-box
factory
the
preceding
winter
. He
remembered
the
hard
palms
of
his
mother
as
she
lay
in
her
coffin
. And
his
father
had
worked
to
the
last
fading
gasp
; the
horned
growth
on
his
hands
must
have
been
half
an
inch
thick
when
he
died
. But
Her
hands
were
soft
, and
her
mother’s
hands
, and
her
brothers’
. This
last
came
to
him
as
a
surprise
; it
was
tremendously
indicative
of
the
highness
of
their
caste
, of
the
enormous
distance
that
stretched
between
her
and
him
.
He
sat
back
on
the
bed
with
a
bitter
laugh
, and
finished
taking
off
his
shoes
. He
was
a
fool
; he
had
been
made
drunken
by
a
woman’s
face
and
by
a
woman’s
soft
, white
hands
. And
then
, suddenly
, before
his
eyes
, on
the
foul
plaster-wall
appeared
a
vision
. He
stood
in
front
of
a
gloomy
tenement
house
. It
was
night-time
, in
the
East
End
of
London
, and
before
him
stood
Margey
, a
little
factory
girl
of
fifteen
. He
had
seen
her
home
after
the
bean-feast
. She
lived
in
that
gloomy
tenement
, a
place
not
fit
for
swine
. His
hand
was
going
out
to
hers
as
he
said
good
night
. She
had
put
her
lips
up
to
be
kissed
, but
he
wasn’t
going
to
kiss
her
. Somehow
he
was
afraid
of
her
. And
then
her
hand
closed
on
his
and
pressed
feverishly
. He
felt
her
callouses
grind
and
grate
on
his
,
and
a
great
wave
of
pity
welled
over
him
. He
saw
her
yearning
, hungry
eyes
, and
her
ill-fed
female
form
which
had
been
rushed
from
childhood
into
a
frightened
and
ferocious
maturity
; then
he
put
his
arms
about
her
in
large
tolerance
and
stooped
and
kissed
her
on
the
lips
. Her
glad
little
cry
rang
in
his
ears
, and
he
felt
her
clinging
to
him
like
a
cat
. Poor
little
starveling
! He
continued
to
stare
at
the
vision
of
what
had
happened
in
the
long
ago
. His
flesh
was
crawling
as
it
had
crawled
that
night
when
she
clung
to
him
, and
his
heart
was
warm
with
pity
. It
was
a
gray
scene
, greasy
gray
, and
the
rain
drizzled
greasily
on
the
pavement
stones
. And
then
a
radiant
glory
shone
on
the
wall
, and
up
through
the
other
vision
, displacing
it
, glimmered
Her
pale
face
under
its
crown
of
golden
hair
, remote
and
inaccessible
as
a
star
.
He
took
the
Browning
and
the
Swinburne
from
the
chair
and
kissed
them
.
Just
the
same
, she
told
me
to
call
again
, he
thought
. He
took
another
look
at
himself
in
the
glass
, and
said
aloud
, with
great
solemnity
:-
“Martin
Eden
, the
first
thing
to-morrow
you
go
to
the
free
library
an’
read
up
on
etiquette
. Understand
!”
He
turned
off
the
gas
, and
the
springs
shrieked
under
his
body
.
“But
you’ve
got
to
quit
cussin’
, Martin
, old
boy
; you’ve
got
to
quit
cussin’
,”
he
said
aloud
.
Then
he
dozed
off
to
sleep
and
to
dream
dreams
that
for
madness
and
audacity
rivalled
those
of
poppy-eaters
.
CHAPTER
V
.
He
awoke
next
morning
from
rosy
scenes
of
dream
to
a
steamy
atmosphere
that
smelled
of
soapsuds
and
dirty
clothes
, and
that
was
vibrant
with
the
jar
and
jangle
of
tormented
life
. As
he
came
out
of
his
room
he
heard
the
slosh
of
water
, a
sharp
exclamation
, and
a
resounding
smack
as
his
sister
visited
her
irritation
upon
one
of
her
numerous
progeny
.
The
squall
of
the
child
went
through
him
like
a
knife
. He
was
aware
that
the
whole
thing
, the
very
air
he
breathed
, was
repulsive
and
mean
.
How
different
, he
thought
, from
the
atmosphere
of
beauty
and
repose
of
the
house
wherein
Ruth
dwelt
. There
it
was
all
spiritual
. Here
it
was
all
material
, and
meanly
material
.
“Come
here
, Alfred
,”
he
called
to
the
crying
child
, at
the
same
time
thrusting
his
hand
into
his
trousers
pocket
, where
he
carried
his
money
loose
in
the
same
large
way
that
he
lived
life
in
general
. He
put
a
quarter
in
the
youngster’s
hand
and
held
him
in
his
arms
a
moment
,
soothing
his
sobs
. “Now
run
along
and
get
some
candy
, and
don’t
forget
to
give
some
to
your
brothers
and
sisters
. Be
sure
and
get
the
kind
that
lasts
longest
.”
His
sister
lifted
a
flushed
face
from
the
wash-tub
and
looked
at
him
.
“A
nickel’d
ha’
ben
enough
,”
she
said
. “It’s
just
like
you
, no
idea
of
the
value
of
money
. The
child’ll
eat
himself
sick
.”
“That’s
all
right
, sis
,”
he
answered
jovially
. “My
money’ll
take
care
of
itself
. If
you
weren’t
so
busy
, I’d
kiss
you
good
morning
.”
He
wanted
to
be
affectionate
to
this
sister
, who
was
good
, and
who
, in
her
way
, he
knew
, loved
him
. But
, somehow
, she
grew
less
herself
as
the
years
went
by
, and
more
and
more
baffling
. It
was
the
hard
work
, the
many
children
, and
the
nagging
of
her
husband
, he
decided
, that
had
changed
her
. It
came
to
him
, in
a
flash
of
fancy
, that
her
nature
seemed
taking
on
the
attributes
of
stale
vegetables
, smelly
soapsuds
,
and
of
the
greasy
dimes
, nickels
, and
quarters
she
took
in
over
the
counter
of
the
store
.
“Go
along
an’
get
your
breakfast
,”
she
said
roughly
, though
secretly
pleased
. Of
all
her
wandering
brood
of
brothers
he
had
always
been
her
favorite
. “I
declare
I
_will_
kiss
you
,”
she
said
, with
a
sudden
stir
at
her
heart
.
With
thumb
and
forefinger
she
swept
the
dripping
suds
first
from
one
arm
and
then
from
the
other
. He
put
his
arms
round
her
massive
waist
and
kissed
her
wet
steamy
lips
. The
tears
welled
into
her
eyes—not
so
much
from
strength
of
feeling
as
from
the
weakness
of
chronic
overwork
.
She
shoved
him
away
from
her
, but
not
before
he
caught
a
glimpse
of
her
moist
eyes
.
“You’ll
find
breakfast
in
the
oven
,”
she
said
hurriedly
. “Jim
ought
to
be
up
now
. I
had
to
get
up
early
for
the
washing
. Now
get
along
with
you
and
get
out
of
the
house
early
. It
won’t
be
nice
to-day
, what
of
Tom
quittin’
an’
nobody
but
Bernard
to
drive
the
wagon
.”
Martin
went
into
the
kitchen
with
a
sinking
heart
, the
image
of
her
red
face
and
slatternly
form
eating
its
way
like
acid
into
his
brain
. She
might
love
him
if
she
only
had
some
time
, he
concluded
. But
she
was
worked
to
death
. Bernard
Higginbotham
was
a
brute
to
work
her
so
hard
.
But
he
could
not
help
but
feel
, on
the
other
hand
, that
there
had
not
been
anything
beautiful
in
that
kiss
. It
was
true
, it
was
an
unusual
kiss
. For
years
she
had
kissed
him
only
when
he
returned
from
voyages
or
departed
on
voyages
. But
this
kiss
had
tasted
of
soapsuds
, and
the
lips
, he
had
noticed
, were
flabby
. There
had
been
no
quick
, vigorous
lip-pressure
such
as
should
accompany
any
kiss
. Hers
was
the
kiss
of
a
tired
woman
who
had
been
tired
so
long
that
she
had
forgotten
how
to
kiss
. He
remembered
her
as
a
girl
, before
her
marriage
, when
she
would
dance
with
the
best
, all
night
, after
a
hard
day’s
work
at
the
laundry
,
and
think
nothing
of
leaving
the
dance
to
go
to
another
day’s
hard
work
. And
then
he
thought
of
Ruth
and
the
cool
sweetness
that
must
reside
in
her
lips
as
it
resided
in
all
about
her
. Her
kiss
would
be
like
her
hand-shake
or
the
way
she
looked
at
one
, firm
and
frank
. In
imagination
he
dared
to
think
of
her
lips
on
his
, and
so
vividly
did
he
imagine
that
he
went
dizzy
at
the
thought
and
seemed
to
rift
through
clouds
of
rose-petals
, filling
his
brain
with
their
perfume
.
In
the
kitchen
he
found
Jim
, the
other
boarder
, eating
mush
very
languidly
, with
a
sick
, far-away
look
in
his
eyes
. Jim
was
a
plumber’s
apprentice
whose
weak
chin
and
hedonistic
temperament
, coupled
with
a
certain
nervous
stupidity
, promised
to
take
him
nowhere
in
the
race
for
bread
and
butter
.
“Why
don’t
you
eat
?”
he
demanded
, as
Martin
dipped
dolefully
into
the
cold
, half-cooked
oatmeal
mush
. “Was
you
drunk
again
last
night
?”
Martin
shook
his
head
. He
was
oppressed
by
the
utter
squalidness
of
it
all
. Ruth
Morse
seemed
farther
removed
than
ever
.
“I
was
,”
Jim
went
on
with
a
boastful
, nervous
giggle
. “I
was
loaded
right
to
the
neck
. Oh
, she
was
a
daisy
. Billy
brought
me
home
.”
Martin
nodded
that
he
heard
,—it
was
a
habit
of
nature
with
him
to
pay
heed
to
whoever
talked
to
him
,—and
poured
a
cup
of
lukewarm
coffee
.
“Goin’
to
the
Lotus
Club
dance
to-night
?”
Jim
demanded
. “They’re
goin’
to
have
beer
, an’
if
that
Temescal
bunch
comes
, there’ll
be
a
rough-house
. I
don’t
care
, though
. I’m
takin’
my
lady
friend
just
the
same
. Cripes
, but
I’ve
got
a
taste
in
my
mouth
!”
He
made
a
wry
face
and
attempted
to
wash
the
taste
away
with
coffee
.
“D’ye
know
Julia
?”
Martin
shook
his
head
.
“She’s
my
lady
friend
,”
Jim
explained
, “and
she’s
a
peach
. I’d
introduce
you
to
her
, only
you’d
win
her
. I
don’t
see
what
the
girls
see
in
you
, honest
I
don’t
; but
the
way
you
win
them
away
from
the
fellers
is
sickenin’
.”
“I
never
got
any
away
from
you
,”
Martin
answered
uninterestedly
. The
breakfast
had
to
be
got
through
somehow
.
“Yes
, you
did
, too
,”
the
other
asserted
warmly
. “There
was
Maggie
.”
“Never
had
anything
to
do
with
her
. Never
danced
with
her
except
that
one
night
.”
“Yes
, an’
that’s
just
what
did
it
,”
Jim
cried
out
. “You
just
danced
with
her
an’
looked
at
her
, an’
it
was
all
off
. Of
course
you
didn’t
mean
nothin’
by
it
, but
it
settled
me
for
keeps
. Wouldn’t
look
at
me
again
. Always
askin’
about
you
. She’d
have
made
fast
dates
enough
with
you
if
you’d
wanted
to
.”
“But
I
didn’t
want
to
.”
“Wasn’t
necessary
. I
was
left
at
the
pole
.”
Jim
looked
at
him
admiringly
. “How
d’ye
do
it
, anyway
, Mart
?”
“By
not
carin’
about
’em
,”
was
the
answer
.
“You
mean
makin’
b’lieve
you
don’t
care
about
them
?”
Jim
queried
eagerly
.
Martin
considered
for
a
moment
, then
answered
, “Perhaps
that
will
do
,
but
with
me
I
guess
it’s
different
. I
never
have
cared—much
. If
you
can
put
it
on
, it’s
all
right
, most
likely
.”
“You
should
’a’
ben
up
at
Riley’s
barn
last
night
,”
Jim
announced
inconsequently
. “A
lot
of
the
fellers
put
on
the
gloves
. There
was
a
peach
from
West
Oakland
. They
called
’m
‘The
Rat
.’
Slick
as
silk
. No
one
could
touch
’m
. We
was
all
wishin’
you
was
there
. Where
was
you
anyway
?”
“Down
in
Oakland
,”
Martin
replied
.
“To
the
show
?”
Martin
shoved
his
plate
away
and
got
up
.
“Comin’
to
the
dance
to-night
?”
the
other
called
after
him
.
“No
, I
think
not
,”
he
answered
.
He
went
downstairs
and
out
into
the
street
, breathing
great
breaths
of
air
. He
had
been
suffocating
in
that
atmosphere
, while
the
apprentice’s
chatter
had
driven
him
frantic
. There
had
been
times
when
it
was
all
he
could
do
to
refrain
from
reaching
over
and
mopping
Jim’s
face
in
the
mush-plate
. The
more
he
had
chattered
, the
more
remote
had
Ruth
seemed
to
him
. How
could
he
, herding
with
such
cattle
, ever
become
worthy
of
her
? He
was
appalled
at
the
problem
confronting
him
, weighted
down
by
the
incubus
of
his
working-class
station
. Everything
reached
out
to
hold
him
down—his
sister
, his
sister’s
house
and
family
, Jim
the
apprentice
, everybody
he
knew
, every
tie
of
life
. Existence
did
not
taste
good
in
his
mouth
. Up
to
then
he
had
accepted
existence
, as
he
had
lived
it
with
all
about
him
, as
a
good
thing
. He
had
never
questioned
it
, except
when
he
read
books
; but
then
, they
were
only
books
, fairy
stories
of
a
fairer
and
impossible
world
. But
now
he
had
seen
that
world
, possible
and
real
, with
a
flower
of
a
woman
called
Ruth
in
the
midmost
centre
of
it
; and
thenceforth
he
must
know
bitter
tastes
, and
longings
sharp
as
pain
, and
hopelessness
that
tantalized
because
it
fed
on
hope
.
He
had
debated
between
the
Berkeley
Free
Library
and
the
Oakland
Free
Library
, and
decided
upon
the
latter
because
Ruth
lived
in
Oakland
. Who
could
tell
?—a
library
was
a
most
likely
place
for
her
, and
he
might
see
her
there
. He
did
not
know
the
way
of
libraries
, and
he
wandered
through
endless
rows
of
fiction
, till
the
delicate-featured
French-looking
girl
who
seemed
in
charge
, told
him
that
the
reference
department
was
upstairs
. He
did
not
know
enough
to
ask
the
man
at
the
desk
, and
began
his
adventures
in
the
philosophy
alcove
. He
had
heard
of
book
philosophy
, but
had
not
imagined
there
had
been
so
much
written
about
it
. The
high
, bulging
shelves
of
heavy
tomes
humbled
him
and
at
the
same
time
stimulated
him
. Here
was
work
for
the
vigor
of
his
brain
.
He
found
books
on
trigonometry
in
the
mathematics
section
, and
ran
the
pages
, and
stared
at
the
meaningless
formulas
and
figures
. He
could
read
English
, but
he
saw
there
an
alien
speech
. Norman
and
Arthur
knew
that
speech
. He
had
heard
them
talking
it
. And
they
were
her
brothers
.
He
left
the
alcove
in
despair
. From
every
side
the
books
seemed
to
press
upon
him
and
crush
him
.
He
had
never
dreamed
that
the
fund
of
human
knowledge
bulked
so
big
. He
was
frightened
. How
could
his
brain
ever
master
it
all
? Later
, he
remembered
that
there
were
other
men
, many
men
, who
had
mastered
it
;
and
he
breathed
a
great
oath
, passionately
, under
his
breath
, swearing
that
his
brain
could
do
what
theirs
had
done
.
And
so
he
wandered
on
, alternating
between
depression
and
elation
as
he
stared
at
the
shelves
packed
with
wisdom
. In
one
miscellaneous
section
he
came
upon
a
“Norrie’s
Epitome
.”
He
turned
the
pages
reverently
. In
a
way
, it
spoke
a
kindred
speech
. Both
he
and
it
were
of
the
sea
. Then
he
found
a
“Bowditch”
and
books
by
Lecky
and
Marshall
. There
it
was
; he
would
teach
himself
navigation
. He
would
quit
drinking
, work
up
, and
become
a
captain
. Ruth
seemed
very
near
to
him
in
that
moment
. As
a
captain
, he
could
marry
her
(if
she
would
have
him)
. And
if
she
wouldn’t
, well—he
would
live
a
good
life
among
men
, because
of
Her
, and
he
would
quit
drinking
anyway
. Then
he
remembered
the
underwriters
and
the
owners
, the
two
masters
a
captain
must
serve
, either
of
which
could
and
would
break
him
and
whose
interests
were
diametrically
opposed
. He
cast
his
eyes
about
the
room
and
closed
the
lids
down
on
a
vision
of
ten
thousand
books
. No
; no
more
of
the
sea
for
him
. There
was
power
in
all
that
wealth
of
books
, and
if
he
would
do
great
things
, he
must
do
them
on
the
land
. Besides
, captains
were
not
allowed
to
take
their
wives
to
sea
with
them
.
Noon
came
, and
afternoon
. He
forgot
to
eat
, and
sought
on
for
the
books
on
etiquette
; for
, in
addition
to
career
, his
mind
was
vexed
by
a
simple
and
very
concrete
problem
: _When
you
meet
a
young
lady
and
she
asks
you
to
call
, how
soon
can
you
call_
? was
the
way
he
worded
it
to
himself
. But
when
he
found
the
right
shelf
, he
sought
vainly
for
the
answer
. He
was
appalled
at
the
vast
edifice
of
etiquette
, and
lost
himself
in
the
mazes
of
visiting-card
conduct
between
persons
in
polite
society
. He
abandoned
his
search
. He
had
not
found
what
he
wanted
,
though
he
had
found
that
it
would
take
all
of
a
man’s
time
to
be
polite
, and
that
he
would
have
to
live
a
preliminary
life
in
which
to
learn
how
to
be
polite
.
“Did
you
find
what
you
wanted
?”
the
man
at
the
desk
asked
him
as
he
was
leaving
.
“Yes
, sir
,”
he
answered
. “You
have
a
fine
library
here
.”
The
man
nodded
. “We
should
be
glad
to
see
you
here
often
. Are
you
a
sailor
?”
“Yes
, sir
,”
he
answered
. “And
I’ll
come
again
.”
Now
, how
did
he
know
that
? he
asked
himself
as
he
went
down
the
stairs
.
And
for
the
first
block
along
the
street
he
walked
very
stiff
and
straight
and
awkwardly
, until
he
forgot
himself
in
his
thoughts
,
whereupon
his
rolling
gait
gracefully
returned
to
him
.
CHAPTER
VI
.
A
terrible
restlessness
that
was
akin
to
hunger
afflicted
Martin
Eden
.
He
was
famished
for
a
sight
of
the
girl
whose
slender
hands
had
gripped
his
life
with
a
giant’s
grasp
. He
could
not
steel
himself
to
call
upon
her
. He
was
afraid
that
he
might
call
too
soon
, and
so
be
guilty
of
an
awful
breach
of
that
awful
thing
called
etiquette
. He
spent
long
hours
in
the
Oakland
and
Berkeley
libraries
, and
made
out
application
blanks
for
membership
for
himself
, his
sisters
Gertrude
and
Marian
, and
Jim
,
the
latter’s
consent
being
obtained
at
the
expense
of
several
glasses
of
beer
. With
four
cards
permitting
him
to
draw
books
, he
burned
the
gas
late
in
the
servant’s
room
, and
was
charged
fifty
cents
a
week
for
it
by
Mr
. Higginbotham
.
The
many
books
he
read
but
served
to
whet
his
unrest
. Every
page
of
every
book
was
a
peep-hole
into
the
realm
of
knowledge
. His
hunger
fed
upon
what
he
read
, and
increased
. Also
, he
did
not
know
where
to
begin
,
and
continually
suffered
from
lack
of
preparation
. The
commonest
references
, that
he
could
see
plainly
every
reader
was
expected
to
know
, he
did
not
know
. And
the
same
was
true
of
the
poetry
he
read
which
maddened
him
with
delight
. He
read
more
of
Swinburne
than
was
contained
in
the
volume
Ruth
had
lent
him
; and
“Dolores”
he
understood
thoroughly
. But
surely
Ruth
did
not
understand
it
, he
concluded
. How
could
she
, living
the
refined
life
she
did
? Then
he
chanced
upon
Kipling’s
poems
, and
was
swept
away
by
the
lilt
and
swing
and
glamour
with
which
familiar
things
had
been
invested
. He
was
amazed
at
the
man’s
sympathy
with
life
and
at
his
incisive
psychology
. _Psychology_
was
a
new
word
in
Martin’s
vocabulary
. He
had
bought
a
dictionary
,
which
deed
had
decreased
his
supply
of
money
and
brought
nearer
the
day
on
which
he
must
sail
in
search
of
more
. Also
, it
incensed
Mr
.
Higginbotham
, who
would
have
preferred
the
money
taking
the
form
of
board
.
He
dared
not
go
near
Ruth’s
neighborhood
in
the
daytime
, but
night
found
him
lurking
like
a
thief
around
the
Morse
home
, stealing
glimpses
at
the
windows
and
loving
the
very
walls
that
sheltered
her
. Several
times
he
barely
escaped
being
caught
by
her
brothers
, and
once
he
trailed
Mr
. Morse
down
town
and
studied
his
face
in
the
lighted
streets
, longing
all
the
while
for
some
quick
danger
of
death
to
threaten
so
that
he
might
spring
in
and
save
her
father
. On
another
night
, his
vigil
was
rewarded
by
a
glimpse
of
Ruth
through
a
second-story
window
. He
saw
only
her
head
and
shoulders
, and
her
arms
raised
as
she
fixed
her
hair
before
a
mirror
. It
was
only
for
a
moment
,
but
it
was
a
long
moment
to
him
, during
which
his
blood
turned
to
wine
and
sang
through
his
veins
. Then
she
pulled
down
the
shade
. But
it
was
her
room—he
had
learned
that
; and
thereafter
he
strayed
there
often
,
hiding
under
a
dark
tree
on
the
opposite
side
of
the
street
and
smoking
countless
cigarettes
. One
afternoon
he
saw
her
mother
coming
out
of
a
bank
, and
received
another
proof
of
the
enormous
distance
that
separated
Ruth
from
him
. She
was
of
the
class
that
dealt
with
banks
. He
had
never
been
inside
a
bank
in
his
life
, and
he
had
an
idea
that
such
institutions
were
frequented
only
by
the
very
rich
and
the
very
powerful
.
In
one
way
, he
had
undergone
a
moral
revolution
. Her
cleanness
and
purity
had
reacted
upon
him
, and
he
felt
in
his
being
a
crying
need
to
be
clean
. He
must
be
that
if
he
were
ever
to
be
worthy
of
breathing
the
same
air
with
her
. He
washed
his
teeth
, and
scrubbed
his
hands
with
a
kitchen
scrub-brush
till
he
saw
a
nail-brush
in
a
drug-store
window
and
divined
its
use
. While
purchasing
it
, the
clerk
glanced
at
his
nails
,
suggested
a
nail-file
, and
so
he
became
possessed
of
an
additional
toilet-tool
. He
ran
across
a
book
in
the
library
on
the
care
of
the
body
, and
promptly
developed
a
penchant
for
a
cold-water
bath
every
morning
, much
to
the
amazement
of
Jim
, and
to
the
bewilderment
of
Mr
.
Higginbotham
, who
was
not
in
sympathy
with
such
high-fangled
notions
and
who
seriously
debated
whether
or
not
he
should
charge
Martin
extra
for
the
water
. Another
stride
was
in
the
direction
of
creased
trousers
.
Now
that
Martin
was
aroused
in
such
matters
, he
swiftly
noted
the
difference
between
the
baggy
knees
of
the
trousers
worn
by
the
working
class
and
the
straight
line
from
knee
to
foot
of
those
worn
by
the
men
above
the
working
class
. Also
, he
learned
the
reason
why
, and
invaded
his
sister’s
kitchen
in
search
of
irons
and
ironing-board
. He
had
misadventures
at
first
, hopelessly
burning
one
pair
and
buying
another
,
which
expenditure
again
brought
nearer
the
day
on
which
he
must
put
to
sea
.
But
the
reform
went
deeper
than
mere
outward
appearance
. He
still
smoked
, but
he
drank
no
more
. Up
to
that
time
, drinking
had
seemed
to
him
the
proper
thing
for
men
to
do
, and
he
had
prided
himself
on
his
strong
head
which
enabled
him
to
drink
most
men
under
the
table
.
Whenever
he
encountered
a
chance
shipmate
, and
there
were
many
in
San
Francisco
, he
treated
them
and
was
treated
in
turn
, as
of
old
, but
he
ordered
for
himself
root
beer
or
ginger
ale
and
good-naturedly
endured
their
chaffing
. And
as
they
waxed
maudlin
he
studied
them
, watching
the
beast
rise
and
master
them
and
thanking
God
that
he
was
no
longer
as
they
. They
had
their
limitations
to
forget
, and
when
they
were
drunk
,
their
dim
, stupid
spirits
were
even
as
gods
, and
each
ruled
in
his
heaven
of
intoxicated
desire
. With
Martin
the
need
for
strong
drink
had
vanished
. He
was
drunken
in
new
and
more
profound
ways—with
Ruth
, who
had
fired
him
with
love
and
with
a
glimpse
of
higher
and
eternal
life
;
with
books
, that
had
set
a
myriad
maggots
of
desire
gnawing
in
his
brain
; and
with
the
sense
of
personal
cleanliness
he
was
achieving
,
that
gave
him
even
more
superb
health
than
what
he
had
enjoyed
and
that
made
his
whole
body
sing
with
physical
well-being
.
One
night
he
went
to
the
theatre
, on
the
blind
chance
that
he
might
see
her
there
, and
from
the
second
balcony
he
did
see
her
. He
saw
her
come
down
the
aisle
, with
Arthur
and
a
strange
young
man
with
a
football
mop
of
hair
and
eyeglasses
, the
sight
of
whom
spurred
him
to
instant
apprehension
and
jealousy
. He
saw
her
take
her
seat
in
the
orchestra
circle
, and
little
else
than
her
did
he
see
that
night—a
pair
of
slender
white
shoulders
and
a
mass
of
pale
gold
hair
, dim
with
distance
. But
there
were
others
who
saw
, and
now
and
again
, glancing
at
those
about
him
, he
noted
two
young
girls
who
looked
back
from
the
row
in
front
, a
dozen
seats
along
, and
who
smiled
at
him
with
bold
eyes
. He
had
always
been
easy-going
. It
was
not
in
his
nature
to
give
rebuff
. In
the
old
days
he
would
have
smiled
back
, and
gone
further
and
encouraged
smiling
. But
now
it
was
different
. He
did
smile
back
, then
looked
away
,
and
looked
no
more
deliberately
. But
several
times
, forgetting
the
existence
of
the
two
girls
, his
eyes
caught
their
smiles
. He
could
not
re-thumb
himself
in
a
day
, nor
could
he
violate
the
intrinsic
kindliness
of
his
nature
; so
, at
such
moments
, he
smiled
at
the
girls
in
warm
human
friendliness
. It
was
nothing
new
to
him
. He
knew
they
were
reaching
out
their
woman’s
hands
to
him
. But
it
was
different
now
.
Far
down
there
in
the
orchestra
circle
was
the
one
woman
in
all
the
world
, so
different
, so
terrifically
different
, from
these
two
girls
of
his
class
, that
he
could
feel
for
them
only
pity
and
sorrow
. He
had
it
in
his
heart
to
wish
that
they
could
possess
, in
some
small
measure
,
her
goodness
and
glory
. And
not
for
the
world
could
he
hurt
them
because
of
their
outreaching
. He
was
not
flattered
by
it
; he
even
felt
a
slight
shame
at
his
lowliness
that
permitted
it
. He
knew
, did
he
belong
in
Ruth’s
class
, that
there
would
be
no
overtures
from
these
girls
; and
with
each
glance
of
theirs
he
felt
the
fingers
of
his
own
class
clutching
at
him
to
hold
him
down
.
He
left
his
seat
before
the
curtain
went
down
on
the
last
act
, intent
on
seeing
Her
as
she
passed
out
. There
were
always
numbers
of
men
who
stood
on
the
sidewalk
outside
, and
he
could
pull
his
cap
down
over
his
eyes
and
screen
himself
behind
some
one’s
shoulder
so
that
she
should
not
see
him
. He
emerged
from
the
theatre
with
the
first
of
the
crowd
;
but
scarcely
had
he
taken
his
position
on
the
edge
of
the
sidewalk
when
the
two
girls
appeared
. They
were
looking
for
him
, he
knew
; and
for
the
moment
he
could
have
cursed
that
in
him
which
drew
women
. Their
casual
edging
across
the
sidewalk
to
the
curb
, as
they
drew
near
, apprised
him
of
discovery
. They
slowed
down
, and
were
in
the
thick
of
the
crowd
as
they
came
up
with
him
. One
of
them
brushed
against
him
and
apparently
for
the
first
time
noticed
him
. She
was
a
slender
, dark
girl
, with
black
, defiant
eyes
. But
they
smiled
at
him
, and
he
smiled
back
.
“Hello
,”
he
said
.
It
was
automatic
; he
had
said
it
so
often
before
under
similar
circumstances
of
first
meetings
. Besides
, he
could
do
no
less
. There
was
that
large
tolerance
and
sympathy
in
his
nature
that
would
permit
him
to
do
no
less
. The
black-eyed
girl
smiled
gratification
and
greeting
, and
showed
signs
of
stopping
, while
her
companion
, arm
linked
in
arm
, giggled
and
likewise
showed
signs
of
halting
. He
thought
quickly
. It
would
never
do
for
Her
to
come
out
and
see
him
talking
there
with
them
. Quite
naturally
, as
a
matter
of
course
, he
swung
in
along-side
the
dark-eyed
one
and
walked
with
her
. There
was
no
awkwardness
on
his
part
, no
numb
tongue
. He
was
at
home
here
, and
he
held
his
own
royally
in
the
badinage
, bristling
with
slang
and
sharpness
, that
was
always
the
preliminary
to
getting
acquainted
in
these
swift-moving
affairs
. At
the
corner
where
the
main
stream
of
people
flowed
onward
, he
started
to
edge
out
into
the
cross
street
. But
the
girl
with
the
black
eyes
caught
his
arm
, following
him
and
dragging
her
companion
after
her
, as
she
cried
:
“Hold
on
, Bill
! What’s
yer
rush
? You’re
not
goin’
to
shake
us
so
sudden
as
all
that
?”
He
halted
with
a
laugh
, and
turned
, facing
them
. Across
their
shoulders
he
could
see
the
moving
throng
passing
under
the
street
lamps
. Where
he
stood
it
was
not
so
light
, and
, unseen
, he
would
be
able
to
see
Her
as
she
passed
by
. She
would
certainly
pass
by
, for
that
way
led
home
.
“What’s
her
name
?”
he
asked
of
the
giggling
girl
, nodding
at
the
dark-eyed
one
.
“You
ask
her
,”
was
the
convulsed
response
.
“Well
, what
is
it
?”
he
demanded
, turning
squarely
on
the
girl
in
question
.
“You
ain’t
told
me
yours
, yet
,”
she
retorted
.
“You
never
asked
it
,”
he
smiled
. “Besides
, you
guessed
the
first
rattle
. It’s
Bill
, all
right
, all
right
.”
“Aw
, go
’long
with
you
.”
She
looked
him
in
the
eyes
, her
own
sharply
passionate
and
inviting
. “What
is
it
, honest
?”
Again
she
looked
. All
the
centuries
of
woman
since
sex
began
were
eloquent
in
her
eyes
. And
he
measured
her
in
a
careless
way
, and
knew
,
bold
now
, that
she
would
begin
to
retreat
, coyly
and
delicately
, as
he
pursued
, ever
ready
to
reverse
the
game
should
he
turn
fainthearted
.
And
, too
, he
was
human
, and
could
feel
the
draw
of
her
, while
his
ego
could
not
but
appreciate
the
flattery
of
her
kindness
. Oh
, he
knew
it
all
, and
knew
them
well
, from
A
to
Z
. Good
, as
goodness
might
be
measured
in
their
particular
class
, hard-working
for
meagre
wages
and
scorning
the
sale
of
self
for
easier
ways
, nervously
desirous
for
some
small
pinch
of
happiness
in
the
desert
of
existence
, and
facing
a
future
that
was
a
gamble
between
the
ugliness
of
unending
toil
and
the
black
pit
of
more
terrible
wretchedness
, the
way
whereto
being
briefer
though
better
paid
.
“Bill
,”
he
answered
, nodding
his
head
. “Sure
, Pete
, Bill
an’
no
other
.”
“No
joshin’
?”
she
queried
.
“It
ain’t
Bill
at
all
,”
the
other
broke
in
.
“How
do
you
know
?”
he
demanded
. “You
never
laid
eyes
on
me
before
.”
“No
need
to
, to
know
you’re
lyin’
,”
was
the
retort
.
“Straight
, Bill
, what
is
it
?”
the
first
girl
asked
.
“Bill’ll
do
,”
he
confessed
.
She
reached
out
to
his
arm
and
shook
him
playfully
. “I
knew
you
was
lyin’
, but
you
look
good
to
me
just
the
same
.”
He
captured
the
hand
that
invited
, and
felt
on
the
palm
familiar
markings
and
distortions
.
“When’d
you
chuck
the
cannery
?”
he
asked
.
“How’d
yeh
know
?”
and
, “My
, ain’t
cheh
a
mind-reader
!”
the
girls
chorussed
.
And
while
he
exchanged
the
stupidities
of
stupid
minds
with
them
,
before
his
inner
sight
towered
the
book-shelves
of
the
library
, filled
with
the
wisdom
of
the
ages
. He
smiled
bitterly
at
the
incongruity
of
it
, and
was
assailed
by
doubts
. But
between
inner
vision
and
outward
pleasantry
he
found
time
to
watch
the
theatre
crowd
streaming
by
. And
then
he
saw
Her
, under
the
lights
, between
her
brother
and
the
strange
young
man
with
glasses
, and
his
heart
seemed
to
stand
still
. He
had
waited
long
for
this
moment
. He
had
time
to
note
the
light
, fluffy
something
that
hid
her
queenly
head
, the
tasteful
lines
of
her
wrapped
figure
, the
gracefulness
of
her
carriage
and
of
the
hand
that
caught
up
her
skirts
; and
then
she
was
gone
and
he
was
left
staring
at
the
two
girls
of
the
cannery
, at
their
tawdry
attempts
at
prettiness
of
dress
,
their
tragic
efforts
to
be
clean
and
trim
, the
cheap
cloth
, the
cheap
ribbons
, and
the
cheap
rings
on
the
fingers
. He
felt
a
tug
at
his
arm
,
and
heard
a
voice
saying
:-
“Wake
up
, Bill
! What’s
the
matter
with
you
?”
“What
was
you
sayin’
?”
he
asked
.
“Oh
, nothin’
,”
the
dark
girl
answered
, with
a
toss
of
her
head
. “I
was
only
remarkin’—”
“What
?”
“Well
, I
was
whisperin’
it’d
be
a
good
idea
if
you
could
dig
up
a
gentleman
friend—for
her”
(indicating
her
companion)
, “and
then
, we
could
go
off
an’
have
ice-cream
soda
somewhere
, or
coffee
, or
anything
.”
He
was
afflicted
by
a
sudden
spiritual
nausea
. The
transition
from
Ruth
to
this
had
been
too
abrupt
. Ranged
side
by
side
with
the
bold
, defiant
eyes
of
the
girl
before
him
, he
saw
Ruth’s
clear
, luminous
eyes
, like
a
saint’s
, gazing
at
him
out
of
unplumbed
depths
of
purity
. And
, somehow
,
he
felt
within
him
a
stir
of
power
. He
was
better
than
this
. Life
meant
more
to
him
than
it
meant
to
these
two
girls
whose
thoughts
did
not
go
beyond
ice-cream
and
a
gentleman
friend
. He
remembered
that
he
had
led
always
a
secret
life
in
his
thoughts
. These
thoughts
he
had
tried
to
share
, but
never
had
he
found
a
woman
capable
of
understanding—nor
a
man
. He
had
tried
, at
times
, but
had
only
puzzled
his
listeners
. And
as
his
thoughts
had
been
beyond
them
, so
, he
argued
now
, he
must
be
beyond
them
. He
felt
power
move
in
him
, and
clenched
his
fists
. If
life
meant
more
to
him
, then
it
was
for
him
to
demand
more
from
life
, but
he
could
not
demand
it
from
such
companionship
as
this
. Those
bold
black
eyes
had
nothing
to
offer
. He
knew
the
thoughts
behind
them—of
ice-cream
and
of
something
else
. But
those
saint’s
eyes
alongside—they
offered
all
he
knew
and
more
than
he
could
guess
. They
offered
books
and
painting
,
beauty
and
repose
, and
all
the
fine
elegance
of
higher
existence
.
Behind
those
black
eyes
he
knew
every
thought
process
. It
was
like
clockwork
. He
could
watch
every
wheel
go
around
. Their
bid
was
low
pleasure
, narrow
as
the
grave
, that
palled
, and
the
grave
was
at
the
end
of
it
. But
the
bid
of
the
saint’s
eyes
was
mystery
, and
wonder
unthinkable
, and
eternal
life
. He
had
caught
glimpses
of
the
soul
in
them
, and
glimpses
of
his
own
soul
, too
.
“There’s
only
one
thing
wrong
with
the
programme
,”
he
said
aloud
. “I’ve
got
a
date
already
.”
The
girl’s
eyes
blazed
her
disappointment
.
“To
sit
up
with
a
sick
friend
, I
suppose
?”
she
sneered
.
“No
, a
real
, honest
date
with—”
he
faltered
, “with
a
girl
.”
“You’re
not
stringin’
me
?”
she
asked
earnestly
.
He
looked
her
in
the
eyes
and
answered
: “It’s
straight
, all
right
. But
why
can’t
we
meet
some
other
time
? You
ain’t
told
me
your
name
yet
. An’
where
d’ye
live
?”
“Lizzie
,”
she
replied
, softening
toward
him
, her
hand
pressing
his
arm
,
while
her
body
leaned
against
his
. “Lizzie
Connolly
. And
I
live
at
Fifth
an’
Market
.”
He
talked
on
a
few
minutes
before
saying
good
night
. He
did
not
go
home
immediately
; and
under
the
tree
where
he
kept
his
vigils
he
looked
up
at
a
window
and
murmured
: “That
date
was
with
you
, Ruth
. I
kept
it
for
you
.”
CHAPTER
VII
.
A
week
of
heavy
reading
had
passed
since
the
evening
he
first
met
Ruth
Morse
, and
still
he
dared
not
call
. Time
and
again
he
nerved
himself
up
to
call
, but
under
the
doubts
that
assailed
him
his
determination
died
away
. He
did
not
know
the
proper
time
to
call
, nor
was
there
any
one
to
tell
him
, and
he
was
afraid
of
committing
himself
to
an
irretrievable
blunder
. Having
shaken
himself
free
from
his
old
companions
and
old
ways
of
life
, and
having
no
new
companions
, nothing
remained
for
him
but
to
read
, and
the
long
hours
he
devoted
to
it
would
have
ruined
a
dozen
pairs
of
ordinary
eyes
. But
his
eyes
were
strong
, and
they
were
backed
by
a
body
superbly
strong
. Furthermore
, his
mind
was
fallow
. It
had
lain
fallow
all
his
life
so
far
as
the
abstract
thought
of
the
books
was
concerned
, and
it
was
ripe
for
the
sowing
. It
had
never
been
jaded
by
study
, and
it
bit
hold
of
the
knowledge
in
the
books
with
sharp
teeth
that
would
not
let
go
.
It
seemed
to
him
, by
the
end
of
the
week
, that
he
had
lived
centuries
,
so
far
behind
were
the
old
life
and
outlook
. But
he
was
baffled
by
lack
of
preparation
. He
attempted
to
read
books
that
required
years
of
preliminary
specialization
. One
day
he
would
read
a
book
of
antiquated
philosophy
, and
the
next
day
one
that
was
ultra-modern
, so
that
his
head
would
be
whirling
with
the
conflict
and
contradiction
of
ideas
. It
was
the
same
with
the
economists
. On
the
one
shelf
at
the
library
he
found
Karl
Marx
, Ricardo
, Adam
Smith
, and
Mill
, and
the
abstruse
formulas
of
the
one
gave
no
clew
that
the
ideas
of
another
were
obsolete
. He
was
bewildered
, and
yet
he
wanted
to
know
. He
had
become
interested
, in
a
day
, in
economics
, industry
, and
politics
. Passing
through
the
City
Hall
Park
, he
had
noticed
a
group
of
men
, in
the
centre
of
which
were
half
a
dozen
, with
flushed
faces
and
raised
voices
, earnestly
carrying
on
a
discussion
. He
joined
the
listeners
,
and
heard
a
new
, alien
tongue
in
the
mouths
of
the
philosophers
of
the
people
. One
was
a
tramp
, another
was
a
labor
agitator
, a
third
was
a
law-school
student
, and
the
remainder
was
composed
of
wordy
workingmen
.
For
the
first
time
he
heard
of
socialism
, anarchism
, and
single
tax
,
and
learned
that
there
were
warring
social
philosophies
. He
heard
hundreds
of
technical
words
that
were
new
to
him
, belonging
to
fields
of
thought
that
his
meagre
reading
had
never
touched
upon
. Because
of
this
he
could
not
follow
the
arguments
closely
, and
he
could
only
guess
at
and
surmise
the
ideas
wrapped
up
in
such
strange
expressions
. Then
there
was
a
black-eyed
restaurant
waiter
who
was
a
theosophist
, a
union
baker
who
was
an
agnostic
, an
old
man
who
baffled
all
of
them
with
the
strange
philosophy
that
_what
is
is
right_
, and
another
old
man
who
discoursed
interminably
about
the
cosmos
and
the
father-atom
and
the
mother-atom
.
Martin
Eden’s
head
was
in
a
state
of
addlement
when
he
went
away
after
several
hours
, and
he
hurried
to
the
library
to
look
up
the
definitions
of
a
dozen
unusual
words
. And
when
he
left
the
library
, he
carried
under
his
arm
four
volumes
: Madam
Blavatsky’s
“Secret
Doctrine
,”
“Progress
and
Poverty
,”
“The
Quintessence
of
Socialism
,”
and
“Warfare
of
Religion
and
Science
.”
Unfortunately
, he
began
on
the
“Secret
Doctrine
.”
Every
line
bristled
with
many-syllabled
words
he
did
not
understand
. He
sat
up
in
bed
, and
the
dictionary
was
in
front
of
him
more
often
than
the
book
. He
looked
up
so
many
new
words
that
when
they
recurred
, he
had
forgotten
their
meaning
and
had
to
look
them
up
again
.
He
devised
the
plan
of
writing
the
definitions
in
a
note-book
, and
filled
page
after
page
with
them
. And
still
he
could
not
understand
. He
read
until
three
in
the
morning
, and
his
brain
was
in
a
turmoil
, but
not
one
essential
thought
in
the
text
had
he
grasped
. He
looked
up
, and
it
seemed
that
the
room
was
lifting
, heeling
, and
plunging
like
a
ship
upon
the
sea
. Then
he
hurled
the
“Secret
Doctrine”
and
many
curses
across
the
room
, turned
off
the
gas
, and
composed
himself
to
sleep
. Nor
did
he
have
much
better
luck
with
the
other
three
books
. It
was
not
that
his
brain
was
weak
or
incapable
; it
could
think
these
thoughts
were
it
not
for
lack
of
training
in
thinking
and
lack
of
the
thought-tools
with
which
to
think
. He
guessed
this
, and
for
a
while
entertained
the
idea
of
reading
nothing
but
the
dictionary
until
he
had
mastered
every
word
in
it
.
Poetry
, however
, was
his
solace
, and
he
read
much
of
it
, finding
his
greatest
joy
in
the
simpler
poets
, who
were
more
understandable
. He
loved
beauty
, and
there
he
found
beauty
. Poetry
, like
music
, stirred
him
profoundly
, and
, though
he
did
not
know
it
, he
was
preparing
his
mind
for
the
heavier
work
that
was
to
come
. The
pages
of
his
mind
were
blank
, and
, without
effort
, much
he
read
and
liked
, stanza
by
stanza
,
was
impressed
upon
those
pages
, so
that
he
was
soon
able
to
extract
great
joy
from
chanting
aloud
or
under
his
breath
the
music
and
the
beauty
of
the
printed
words
he
had
read
. Then
he
stumbled
upon
Gayley’s
“Classic
Myths”
and
Bulfinch’s
“Age
of
Fable
,”
side
by
side
on
a
library
shelf
. It
was
illumination
, a
great
light
in
the
darkness
of
his
ignorance
, and
he
read
poetry
more
avidly
than
ever
.
The
man
at
the
desk
in
the
library
had
seen
Martin
there
so
often
that
he
had
become
quite
cordial
, always
greeting
him
with
a
smile
and
a
nod
when
he
entered
. It
was
because
of
this
that
Martin
did
a
daring
thing
.
Drawing
out
some
books
at
the
desk
, and
while
the
man
was
stamping
the
cards
, Martin
blurted
out
:-
“Say
, there’s
something
I’d
like
to
ask
you
.”
The
man
smiled
and
paid
attention
.
“When
you
meet
a
young
lady
an’
she
asks
you
to
call
, how
soon
can
you
call
?”
Martin
felt
his
shirt
press
and
cling
to
his
shoulders
, what
of
the
sweat
of
the
effort
.
“Why
I’d
say
any
time
,”
the
man
answered
.
“Yes
, but
this
is
different
,”
Martin
objected
. “She—I—well
, you
see
,
it’s
this
way
: maybe
she
won’t
be
there
. She
goes
to
the
university
.”
“Then
call
again
.”
“What
I
said
ain’t
what
I
meant
,”
Martin
confessed
falteringly
, while
he
made
up
his
mind
to
throw
himself
wholly
upon
the
other’s
mercy
.
“I’m
just
a
rough
sort
of
a
fellow
, an’
I
ain’t
never
seen
anything
of
society
. This
girl
is
all
that
I
ain’t
, an’
I
ain’t
anything
that
she
is
. You
don’t
think
I’m
playin’
the
fool
, do
you
?”
he
demanded
abruptly
.
“No
, no
; not
at
all
, I
assure
you
,”
the
other
protested
. “Your
request
is
not
exactly
in
the
scope
of
the
reference
department
, but
I
shall
be
only
too
pleased
to
assist
you
.”
Martin
looked
at
him
admiringly
.
“If
I
could
tear
it
off
that
way
, I’d
be
all
right
,”
he
said
.
“I
beg
pardon
?”
“I
mean
if
I
could
talk
easy
that
way
, an’
polite
, an’
all
the
rest
.”
“Oh
,”
said
the
other
, with
comprehension
.
“What
is
the
best
time
to
call
? The
afternoon
?—not
too
close
to
meal-time
? Or
the
evening
? Or
Sunday
?”
“I’ll
tell
you
,”
the
librarian
said
with
a
brightening
face
. “You
call
her
up
on
the
telephone
and
find
out
.”
“I’ll
do
it
,”
he
said
, picking
up
his
books
and
starting
away
.
He
turned
back
and
asked
:-
“When
you’re
speakin’
to
a
young
lady—say
, for
instance
, Miss
Lizzie
Smith—do
you
say
‘Miss
Lizzie’
? or
‘Miss
Smith’
?”
“Say
‘Miss
Smith
,’”
the
librarian
stated
authoritatively
. “Say
‘Miss
Smith’
always—until
you
come
to
know
her
better
.”
So
it
was
that
Martin
Eden
solved
the
problem
.
“Come
down
any
time
; I’ll
be
at
home
all
afternoon
,”
was
Ruth’s
reply
over
the
telephone
to
his
stammered
request
as
to
when
he
could
return
the
borrowed
books
.
She
met
him
at
the
door
herself
, and
her
woman’s
eyes
took
in
immediately
the
creased
trousers
and
the
certain
slight
but
indefinable
change
in
him
for
the
better
. Also
, she
was
struck
by
his
face
. It
was
almost
violent
, this
health
of
his
, and
it
seemed
to
rush
out
of
him
and
at
her
in
waves
of
force
. She
felt
the
urge
again
of
the
desire
to
lean
toward
him
for
warmth
, and
marvelled
again
at
the
effect
his
presence
produced
upon
her
. And
he
, in
turn
, knew
again
the
swimming
sensation
of
bliss
when
he
felt
the
contact
of
her
hand
in
greeting
.
The
difference
between
them
lay
in
that
she
was
cool
and
self-possessed
while
his
face
flushed
to
the
roots
of
the
hair
. He
stumbled
with
his
old
awkwardness
after
her
, and
his
shoulders
swung
and
lurched
perilously
.
Once
they
were
seated
in
the
living-room
, he
began
to
get
on
easily—more
easily
by
far
than
he
had
expected
. She
made
it
easy
for
him
; and
the
gracious
spirit
with
which
she
did
it
made
him
love
her
more
madly
than
ever
. They
talked
first
of
the
borrowed
books
, of
the
Swinburne
he
was
devoted
to
, and
of
the
Browning
he
did
not
understand
;
and
she
led
the
conversation
on
from
subject
to
subject
, while
she
pondered
the
problem
of
how
she
could
be
of
help
to
him
. She
had
thought
of
this
often
since
their
first
meeting
. She
wanted
to
help
him
. He
made
a
call
upon
her
pity
and
tenderness
that
no
one
had
ever
made
before
, and
the
pity
was
not
so
much
derogatory
of
him
as
maternal
in
her
. Her
pity
could
not
be
of
the
common
sort
, when
the
man
who
drew
it
was
so
much
man
as
to
shock
her
with
maidenly
fears
and
set
her
mind
and
pulse
thrilling
with
strange
thoughts
and
feelings
. The
old
fascination
of
his
neck
was
there
, and
there
was
sweetness
in
the
thought
of
laying
her
hands
upon
it
. It
seemed
still
a
wanton
impulse
,
but
she
had
grown
more
used
to
it
. She
did
not
dream
that
in
such
guise
new-born
love
would
epitomize
itself
. Nor
did
she
dream
that
the
feeling
he
excited
in
her
was
love
. She
thought
she
was
merely
interested
in
him
as
an
unusual
type
possessing
various
potential
excellencies
, and
she
even
felt
philanthropic
about
it
.
She
did
not
know
she
desired
him
; but
with
him
it
was
different
. He
knew
that
he
loved
her
, and
he
desired
her
as
he
had
never
before
desired
anything
in
his
life
. He
had
loved
poetry
for
beauty’s
sake
;
but
since
he
met
her
the
gates
to
the
vast
field
of
love-poetry
had
been
opened
wide
. She
had
given
him
understanding
even
more
than
Bulfinch
and
Gayley
. There
was
a
line
that
a
week
before
he
would
not
have
favored
with
a
second
thought—“God’s
own
mad
lover
dying
on
a
kiss”
; but
now
it
was
ever
insistent
in
his
mind
. He
marvelled
at
the
wonder
of
it
and
the
truth
; and
as
he
gazed
upon
her
he
knew
that
he
could
die
gladly
upon
a
kiss
. He
felt
himself
God’s
own
mad
lover
, and
no
accolade
of
knighthood
could
have
given
him
greater
pride
. And
at
last
he
knew
the
meaning
of
life
and
why
he
had
been
born
.
As
he
gazed
at
her
and
listened
, his
thoughts
grew
daring
. He
reviewed
all
the
wild
delight
of
the
pressure
of
her
hand
in
his
at
the
door
,
and
longed
for
it
again
. His
gaze
wandered
often
toward
her
lips
, and
he
yearned
for
them
hungrily
. But
there
was
nothing
gross
or
earthly
about
this
yearning
. It
gave
him
exquisite
delight
to
watch
every
movement
and
play
of
those
lips
as
they
enunciated
the
words
she
spoke
;
yet
they
were
not
ordinary
lips
such
as
all
men
and
women
had
. Their
substance
was
not
mere
human
clay
. They
were
lips
of
pure
spirit
, and
his
desire
for
them
seemed
absolutely
different
from
the
desire
that
had
led
him
to
other
women’s
lips
. He
could
kiss
her
lips
, rest
his
own
physical
lips
upon
them
, but
it
would
be
with
the
lofty
and
awful
fervor
with
which
one
would
kiss
the
robe
of
God
. He
was
not
conscious
of
this
transvaluation
of
values
that
had
taken
place
in
him
, and
was
unaware
that
the
light
that
shone
in
his
eyes
when
he
looked
at
her
was
quite
the
same
light
that
shines
in
all
men’s
eyes
when
the
desire
of
love
is
upon
them
. He
did
not
dream
how
ardent
and
masculine
his
gaze
was
, nor
that
the
warm
flame
of
it
was
affecting
the
alchemy
of
her
spirit
. Her
penetrative
virginity
exalted
and
disguised
his
own
emotions
, elevating
his
thoughts
to
a
star-cool
chastity
, and
he
would
have
been
startled
to
learn
that
there
was
that
shining
out
of
his
eyes
, like
warm
waves
, that
flowed
through
her
and
kindled
a
kindred
warmth
. She
was
subtly
perturbed
by
it
, and
more
than
once
, though
she
knew
not
why
, it
disrupted
her
train
of
thought
with
its
delicious
intrusion
and
compelled
her
to
grope
for
the
remainder
of
ideas
partly
uttered
. Speech
was
always
easy
with
her
, and
these
interruptions
would
have
puzzled
her
had
she
not
decided
that
it
was
because
he
was
a
remarkable
type
. She
was
very
sensitive
to
impressions
, and
it
was
not
strange
, after
all
, that
this
aura
of
a
traveller
from
another
world
should
so
affect
her
.
The
problem
in
the
background
of
her
consciousness
was
how
to
help
him
,
and
she
turned
the
conversation
in
that
direction
; but
it
was
Martin
who
came
to
the
point
first
.
“I
wonder
if
I
can
get
some
advice
from
you
,”
he
began
, and
received
an
acquiescence
of
willingness
that
made
his
heart
bound
. “You
remember
the
other
time
I
was
here
I
said
I
couldn’t
talk
about
books
an’
things
because
I
didn’t
know
how
? Well
, I’ve
ben
doin’
a
lot
of
thinkin’
ever
since
. I’ve
ben
to
the
library
a
whole
lot
, but
most
of
the
books
I’ve
tackled
have
ben
over
my
head
. Mebbe
I’d
better
begin
at
the
beginnin’
.
I
ain’t
never
had
no
advantages
. I’ve
worked
pretty
hard
ever
since
I
was
a
kid
, an’
since
I’ve
ben
to
the
library
, lookin’
with
new
eyes
at
books—an’
lookin’
at
new
books
, too—I’ve
just
about
concluded
that
I
ain’t
ben
reading
the
right
kind
. You
know
the
books
you
find
in
cattle-camps
an’
fo’c’s’ls
ain’t
the
same
you’ve
got
in
this
house
, for
instance
. Well
, that’s
the
sort
of
readin’
matter
I’ve
ben
accustomed
to
. And
yet—an’
I
ain’t
just
makin’
a
brag
of
it—I’ve
ben
different
from
the
people
I’ve
herded
with
. Not
that
I’m
any
better
than
the
sailors
an’
cow-punchers
I
travelled
with
,—I
was
cow-punchin’
for
a
short
time
, you
know
,—but
I
always
liked
books
, read
everything
I
could
lay
hands
on
, an’—well
, I
guess
I
think
differently
from
most
of
’em
.
“Now
, to
come
to
what
I’m
drivin’
at
. I
was
never
inside
a
house
like
this
. When
I
come
a
week
ago
, an’
saw
all
this
, an’
you
, an’
your
mother
, an’
brothers
, an’
everything—well
, I
liked
it
. I’d
heard
about
such
things
an’
read
about
such
things
in
some
of
the
books
, an’
when
I
looked
around
at
your
house
, why
, the
books
come
true
. But
the
thing
I’m
after
is
I
liked
it
. I
wanted
it
. I
want
it
now
. I
want
to
breathe
air
like
you
get
in
this
house—air
that
is
filled
with
books
, and
pictures
, and
beautiful
things
, where
people
talk
in
low
voices
an’
are
clean
, an’
their
thoughts
are
clean
. The
air
I
always
breathed
was
mixed
up
with
grub
an’
house-rent
an’
scrappin’
an
booze
an’
that’s
all
they
talked
about
, too
. Why
, when
you
was
crossin’
the
room
to
kiss
your
mother
, I
thought
it
was
the
most
beautiful
thing
I
ever
seen
.
I’ve
seen
a
whole
lot
of
life
, an’
somehow
I’ve
seen
a
whole
lot
more
of
it
than
most
of
them
that
was
with
me
. I
like
to
see
, an’
I
want
to
see
more
, an’
I
want
to
see
it
different
.
“But
I
ain’t
got
to
the
point
yet
. Here
it
is
. I
want
to
make
my
way
to
the
kind
of
life
you
have
in
this
house
. There’s
more
in
life
than
booze
, an’
hard
work
, an’
knockin’
about
. Now
, how
am
I
goin’
to
get
it
? Where
do
I
take
hold
an’
begin
? I’m
willin’
to
work
my
passage
, you
know
, an’
I
can
make
most
men
sick
when
it
comes
to
hard
work
. Once
I
get
started
, I’ll
work
night
an’
day
. Mebbe
you
think
it’s
funny
, me
askin’
you
about
all
this
. I
know
you’re
the
last
person
in
the
world
I
ought
to
ask
, but
I
don’t
know
anybody
else
I
could
ask—unless
it’s
Arthur
. Mebbe
I
ought
to
ask
him
. If
I
was—”
His
voice
died
away
. His
firmly
planned
intention
had
come
to
a
halt
on
the
verge
of
the
horrible
probability
that
he
should
have
asked
Arthur
and
that
he
had
made
a
fool
of
himself
. Ruth
did
not
speak
immediately
.
She
was
too
absorbed
in
striving
to
reconcile
the
stumbling
, uncouth
speech
and
its
simplicity
of
thought
with
what
she
saw
in
his
face
. She
had
never
looked
in
eyes
that
expressed
greater
power
. Here
was
a
man
who
could
do
anything
, was
the
message
she
read
there
, and
it
accorded
ill
with
the
weakness
of
his
spoken
thought
. And
for
that
matter
so
complex
and
quick
was
her
own
mind
that
she
did
not
have
a
just
appreciation
of
simplicity
. And
yet
she
had
caught
an
impression
of
power
in
the
very
groping
of
this
mind
. It
had
seemed
to
her
like
a
giant
writhing
and
straining
at
the
bonds
that
held
him
down
. Her
face
was
all
sympathy
when
she
did
speak
.
“What
you
need
, you
realize
yourself
, and
it
is
education
. You
should
go
back
and
finish
grammar
school
, and
then
go
through
to
high
school
and
university
.”
“But
that
takes
money
,”
he
interrupted
.
“Oh
!”
she
cried
. “I
had
not
thought
of
that
. But
then
you
have
relatives
, somebody
who
could
assist
you
?”
He
shook
his
head
.
“My
father
and
mother
are
dead
. I’ve
two
sisters
, one
married
, an’
the
other’ll
get
married
soon
, I
suppose
. Then
I’ve
a
string
of
brothers
,—I’m
the
youngest
,—but
they
never
helped
nobody
. They’ve
just
knocked
around
over
the
world
, lookin’
out
for
number
one
. The
oldest
died
in
India
. Two
are
in
South
Africa
now
, an’
another’s
on
a
whaling
voyage
, an’
one’s
travellin’
with
a
circus—he
does
trapeze
work
. An’
I
guess
I’m
just
like
them
. I’ve
taken
care
of
myself
since
I
was
eleven—that’s
when
my
mother
died
. I’ve
got
to
study
by
myself
, I
guess
, an’
what
I
want
to
know
is
where
to
begin
.”
“I
should
say
the
first
thing
of
all
would
be
to
get
a
grammar
. Your
grammar
is—”
She
had
intended
saying
“awful
,”
but
she
amended
it
to
“is
not
particularly
good
.”
He
flushed
and
sweated
.
“I
know
I
must
talk
a
lot
of
slang
an’
words
you
don’t
understand
. But
then
they’re
the
only
words
I
know—how
to
speak
. I’ve
got
other
words
in
my
mind
, picked
’em
up
from
books
, but
I
can’t
pronounce
’em
, so
I
don’t
use
’em
.”
“It
isn’t
what
you
say
, so
much
as
how
you
say
it
. You
don’t
mind
my
being
frank
, do
you
? I
don’t
want
to
hurt
you
.”
“No
, no
,”
he
cried
, while
he
secretly
blessed
her
for
her
kindness
.
“Fire
away
. I’ve
got
to
know
, an’
I’d
sooner
know
from
you
than
anybody
else
.”
“Well
, then
, you
say
, ‘You
was’
; it
should
be
, ‘You
were
.’
You
say
‘I
seen’
for
‘I
saw
.’
You
use
the
double
negative—”
“What’s
the
double
negative
?”
he
demanded
; then
added
humbly
, “You
see
,
I
don’t
even
understand
your
explanations
.”
“I’m
afraid
I
didn’t
explain
that
,”
she
smiled
. “A
double
negative
is—let
me
see—well
, you
say
, ‘never
helped
nobody
.’
‘Never’
is
a
negative
. ‘Nobody’
is
another
negative
. It
is
a
rule
that
two
negatives
make
a
positive
. ‘Never
helped
nobody’
means
that
, not
helping
nobody
,
they
must
have
helped
somebody
.”
“That’s
pretty
clear
,”
he
said
. “I
never
thought
of
it
before
. But
it
don’t
mean
they
_must_
have
helped
somebody
, does
it
? Seems
to
me
that
‘never
helped
nobody’
just
naturally
fails
to
say
whether
or
not
they
helped
somebody
. I
never
thought
of
it
before
, and
I’ll
never
say
it
again
.”
She
was
pleased
and
surprised
with
the
quickness
and
surety
of
his
mind
. As
soon
as
he
had
got
the
clew
he
not
only
understood
but
corrected
her
error
.
“You’ll
find
it
all
in
the
grammar
,”
she
went
on
. “There’s
something
else
I
noticed
in
your
speech
. You
say
‘don’t’
when
you
shouldn’t
.
‘Don’t’
is
a
contraction
and
stands
for
two
words
. Do
you
know
them
?”
He
thought
a
moment
, then
answered
, “‘Do
not
.’”
She
nodded
her
head
, and
said
, “And
you
use
‘don’t’
when
you
mean
‘does
not
.’”
He
was
puzzled
over
this
, and
did
not
get
it
so
quickly
.
“Give
me
an
illustration
,”
he
asked
.
“Well—”
She
puckered
her
brows
and
pursed
up
her
mouth
as
she
thought
,
while
he
looked
on
and
decided
that
her
expression
was
most
adorable
.
“‘It
don’t
do
to
be
hasty
.’
Change
‘don’t’
to
‘do
not
,’
and
it
reads
,
‘It
do
not
do
to
be
hasty
,’
which
is
perfectly
absurd
.”
He
turned
it
over
in
his
mind
and
considered
.
“Doesn’t
it
jar
on
your
ear
?”
she
suggested
.
“Can’t
say
that
it
does
,”
he
replied
judicially
.
“Why
didn’t
you
say
, ‘Can’t
say
that
it
do’
?”
she
queried
.
“That
sounds
wrong
,”
he
said
slowly
. “As
for
the
other
I
can’t
make
up
my
mind
. I
guess
my
ear
ain’t
had
the
trainin’
yours
has
.”
“There
is
no
such
word
as
‘ain’t
,’”
she
said
, prettily
emphatic
.
Martin
flushed
again
.
“And
you
say
‘ben’
for
‘been
,’”
she
continued
; “‘come’
for
‘came’
; and
the
way
you
chop
your
endings
is
something
dreadful
.”
“How
do
you
mean
?”
He
leaned
forward
, feeling
that
he
ought
to
get
down
on
his
knees
before
so
marvellous
a
mind
. “How
do
I
chop
?”
“You
don’t
complete
the
endings
. ‘A-n-d’
spells
‘and
.’
You
pronounce
it
‘an’
.’
‘I-n-g’
spells
‘ing
.’
Sometimes
you
pronounce
it
‘ing’
and
sometimes
you
leave
off
the
‘g
.’
And
then
you
slur
by
dropping
initial
letters
and
diphthongs
. ‘T-h-e-m’
spells
‘them
.’
You
pronounce
it—oh
,
well
, it
is
not
necessary
to
go
over
all
of
them
. What
you
need
is
the
grammar
. I’ll
get
one
and
show
you
how
to
begin
.”
As
she
arose
, there
shot
through
his
mind
something
that
he
had
read
in
the
etiquette
books
, and
he
stood
up
awkwardly
, worrying
as
to
whether
he
was
doing
the
right
thing
, and
fearing
that
she
might
take
it
as
a
sign
that
he
was
about
to
go
.
“By
the
way
, Mr
. Eden
,”
she
called
back
, as
she
was
leaving
the
room
.
“What
is
_booze_
? You
used
it
several
times
, you
know
.”
“Oh
, booze
,”
he
laughed
. “It’s
slang
. It
means
whiskey
an’
beer—anything
that
will
make
you
drunk
.”
“And
another
thing
,”
she
laughed
back
. “Don’t
use
‘you’
when
you
are
impersonal
. ‘You’
is
very
personal
, and
your
use
of
it
just
now
was
not
precisely
what
you
meant
.”
“I
don’t
just
see
that
.”
“Why
, you
said
just
now
, to
me
, ‘whiskey
and
beer—anything
that
will
make
you
drunk’—make
me
drunk
, don’t
you
see
?”
“Well
, it
would
, wouldn’t
it
?”
“Yes
, of
course
,”
she
smiled
. “But
it
would
be
nicer
not
to
bring
me
into
it
. Substitute
‘one’
for
‘you’
and
see
how
much
better
it
sounds
.”
When
she
returned
with
the
grammar
, she
drew
a
chair
near
his—he
wondered
if
he
should
have
helped
her
with
the
chair—and
sat
down
beside
him
. She
turned
the
pages
of
the
grammar
, and
their
heads
were
inclined
toward
each
other
. He
could
hardly
follow
her
outlining
of
the
work
he
must
do
, so
amazed
was
he
by
her
delightful
propinquity
. But
when
she
began
to
lay
down
the
importance
of
conjugation
, he
forgot
all
about
her
. He
had
never
heard
of
conjugation
, and
was
fascinated
by
the
glimpse
he
was
catching
into
the
tie-ribs
of
language
. He
leaned
closer
to
the
page
, and
her
hair
touched
his
cheek
. He
had
fainted
but
once
in
his
life
, and
he
thought
he
was
going
to
faint
again
. He
could
scarcely
breathe
, and
his
heart
was
pounding
the
blood
up
into
his
throat
and
suffocating
him
. Never
had
she
seemed
so
accessible
as
now
. For
the
moment
the
great
gulf
that
separated
them
was
bridged
. But
there
was
no
diminution
in
the
loftiness
of
his
feeling
for
her
. She
had
not
descended
to
him
. It
was
he
who
had
been
caught
up
into
the
clouds
and
carried
to
her
. His
reverence
for
her
, in
that
moment
, was
of
the
same
order
as
religious
awe
and
fervor
. It
seemed
to
him
that
he
had
intruded
upon
the
holy
of
holies
, and
slowly
and
carefully
he
moved
his
head
aside
from
the
contact
which
thrilled
him
like
an
electric
shock
and
of
which
she
had
not
been
aware
.
CHAPTER
VIII
.
Several
weeks
went
by
, during
which
Martin
Eden
studied
his
grammar
,
reviewed
the
books
on
etiquette
, and
read
voraciously
the
books
that
caught
his
fancy
. Of
his
own
class
he
saw
nothing
. The
girls
of
the
Lotus
Club
wondered
what
had
become
of
him
and
worried
Jim
with
questions
, and
some
of
the
fellows
who
put
on
the
glove
at
Riley’s
were
glad
that
Martin
came
no
more
. He
made
another
discovery
of
treasure-trove
in
the
library
. As
the
grammar
had
shown
him
the
tie-ribs
of
language
, so
that
book
showed
him
the
tie-ribs
of
poetry
,
and
he
began
to
learn
metre
and
construction
and
form
, beneath
the
beauty
he
loved
finding
the
why
and
wherefore
of
that
beauty
. Another
modern
book
he
found
treated
poetry
as
a
representative
art
, treated
it
exhaustively
, with
copious
illustrations
from
the
best
in
literature
.
Never
had
he
read
fiction
with
so
keen
zest
as
he
studied
these
books
.
And
his
fresh
mind
, untaxed
for
twenty
years
and
impelled
by
maturity
of
desire
, gripped
hold
of
what
he
read
with
a
virility
unusual
to
the
student
mind
.
When
he
looked
back
now
from
his
vantage-ground
, the
old
world
he
had
known
, the
world
of
land
and
sea
and
ships
, of
sailor-men
and
harpy-women
, seemed
a
very
small
world
; and
yet
it
blended
in
with
this
new
world
and
expanded
. His
mind
made
for
unity
, and
he
was
surprised
when
at
first
he
began
to
see
points
of
contact
between
the
two
worlds
.
And
he
was
ennobled
, as
well
, by
the
loftiness
of
thought
and
beauty
he
found
in
the
books
. This
led
him
to
believe
more
firmly
than
ever
that
up
above
him
, in
society
like
Ruth
and
her
family
, all
men
and
women
thought
these
thoughts
and
lived
them
. Down
below
where
he
lived
was
the
ignoble
, and
he
wanted
to
purge
himself
of
the
ignoble
that
had
soiled
all
his
days
, and
to
rise
to
that
sublimated
realm
where
dwelt
the
upper
classes
. All
his
childhood
and
youth
had
been
troubled
by
a
vague
unrest
; he
had
never
known
what
he
wanted
, but
he
had
wanted
something
that
he
had
hunted
vainly
for
until
he
met
Ruth
. And
now
his
unrest
had
become
sharp
and
painful
, and
he
knew
at
last
, clearly
and
definitely
, that
it
was
beauty
, and
intellect
, and
love
that
he
must
have
.
During
those
several
weeks
he
saw
Ruth
half
a
dozen
times
, and
each
time
was
an
added
inspiration
. She
helped
him
with
his
English
,
corrected
his
pronunciation
, and
started
him
on
arithmetic
. But
their
intercourse
was
not
all
devoted
to
elementary
study
. He
had
seen
too
much
of
life
, and
his
mind
was
too
matured
, to
be
wholly
content
with
fractions
, cube
root
, parsing
, and
analysis
; and
there
were
times
when
their
conversation
turned
on
other
themes—the
last
poetry
he
had
read
,
the
latest
poet
she
had
studied
. And
when
she
read
aloud
to
him
her
favorite
passages
, he
ascended
to
the
topmost
heaven
of
delight
. Never
,
in
all
the
women
he
had
heard
speak
, had
he
heard
a
voice
like
hers
.
The
least
sound
of
it
was
a
stimulus
to
his
love
, and
he
thrilled
and
throbbed
with
every
word
she
uttered
. It
was
the
quality
of
it
, the
repose
, and
the
musical
modulation—the
soft
, rich
, indefinable
product
of
culture
and
a
gentle
soul
. As
he
listened
to
her
, there
rang
in
the
ears
of
his
memory
the
harsh
cries
of
barbarian
women
and
of
hags
, and
,
in
lesser
degrees
of
harshness
, the
strident
voices
of
working
women
and
of
the
girls
of
his
own
class
. Then
the
chemistry
of
vision
would
begin
to
work
, and
they
would
troop
in
review
across
his
mind
, each
, by
contrast
, multiplying
Ruth’s
glories
. Then
, too
, his
bliss
was
heightened
by
the
knowledge
that
her
mind
was
comprehending
what
she
read
and
was
quivering
with
appreciation
of
the
beauty
of
the
written
thought
. She
read
to
him
much
from
“The
Princess
,”
and
often
he
saw
her
eyes
swimming
with
tears
, so
finely
was
her
aesthetic
nature
strung
. At
such
moments
her
own
emotions
elevated
him
till
he
was
as
a
god
, and
,
as
he
gazed
at
her
and
listened
, he
seemed
gazing
on
the
face
of
life
and
reading
its
deepest
secrets
. And
then
, becoming
aware
of
the
heights
of
exquisite
sensibility
he
attained
, he
decided
that
this
was
love
and
that
love
was
the
greatest
thing
in
the
world
. And
in
review
would
pass
along
the
corridors
of
memory
all
previous
thrills
and
burnings
he
had
known
,—the
drunkenness
of
wine
, the
caresses
of
women
,
the
rough
play
and
give
and
take
of
physical
contests
,—and
they
seemed
trivial
and
mean
compared
with
this
sublime
ardor
he
now
enjoyed
.
The
situation
was
obscured
to
Ruth
. She
had
never
had
any
experiences
of
the
heart
. Her
only
experiences
in
such
matters
were
of
the
books
,
where
the
facts
of
ordinary
day
were
translated
by
fancy
into
a
fairy
realm
of
unreality
; and
she
little
knew
that
this
rough
sailor
was
creeping
into
her
heart
and
storing
there
pent
forces
that
would
some
day
burst
forth
and
surge
through
her
in
waves
of
fire
. She
did
not
know
the
actual
fire
of
love
. Her
knowledge
of
love
was
purely
theoretical
, and
she
conceived
of
it
as
lambent
flame
, gentle
as
the
fall
of
dew
or
the
ripple
of
quiet
water
, and
cool
as
the
velvet-dark
of
summer
nights
. Her
idea
of
love
was
more
that
of
placid
affection
,
serving
the
loved
one
softly
in
an
atmosphere
, flower-scented
and
dim-lighted
, of
ethereal
calm
. She
did
not
dream
of
the
volcanic
convulsions
of
love
, its
scorching
heat
and
sterile
wastes
of
parched
ashes
. She
knew
neither
her
own
potencies
, nor
the
potencies
of
the
world
; and
the
deeps
of
life
were
to
her
seas
of
illusion
. The
conjugal
affection
of
her
father
and
mother
constituted
her
ideal
of
love-affinity
, and
she
looked
forward
some
day
to
emerging
, without
shock
or
friction
, into
that
same
quiet
sweetness
of
existence
with
a
loved
one
.
So
it
was
that
she
looked
upon
Martin
Eden
as
a
novelty
, a
strange
individual
, and
she
identified
with
novelty
and
strangeness
the
effects
he
produced
upon
her
. It
was
only
natural
. In
similar
ways
she
had
experienced
unusual
feelings
when
she
looked
at
wild
animals
in
the
menagerie
, or
when
she
witnessed
a
storm
of
wind
, or
shuddered
at
the
bright-ribbed
lightning
. There
was
something
cosmic
in
such
things
, and
there
was
something
cosmic
in
him
. He
came
to
her
breathing
of
large
airs
and
great
spaces
. The
blaze
of
tropic
suns
was
in
his
face
, and
in
his
swelling
, resilient
muscles
was
the
primordial
vigor
of
life
. He
was
marred
and
scarred
by
that
mysterious
world
of
rough
men
and
rougher
deeds
, the
outposts
of
which
began
beyond
her
horizon
. He
was
untamed
, wild
, and
in
secret
ways
her
vanity
was
touched
by
the
fact
that
he
came
so
mildly
to
her
hand
. Likewise
she
was
stirred
by
the
common
impulse
to
tame
the
wild
thing
. It
was
an
unconscious
impulse
,
and
farthest
from
her
thoughts
that
her
desire
was
to
re-thumb
the
clay
of
him
into
a
likeness
of
her
father’s
image
, which
image
she
believed
to
be
the
finest
in
the
world
. Nor
was
there
any
way
, out
of
her
inexperience
, for
her
to
know
that
the
cosmic
feel
she
caught
of
him
was
that
most
cosmic
of
things
, love
, which
with
equal
power
drew
men
and
women
together
across
the
world
, compelled
stags
to
kill
each
other
in
the
rutting
season
, and
drove
even
the
elements
irresistibly
to
unite
.
His
swift
development
was
a
source
of
surprise
and
interest
. She
detected
unguessed
finenesses
in
him
that
seemed
to
bud
, day
by
day
,
like
flowers
in
congenial
soil
. She
read
Browning
aloud
to
him
, and
was
often
puzzled
by
the
strange
interpretations
he
gave
to
mooted
passages
. It
was
beyond
her
to
realize
that
, out
of
his
experience
of
men
and
women
and
life
, his
interpretations
were
far
more
frequently
correct
than
hers
. His
conceptions
seemed
naive
to
her
, though
she
was
often
fired
by
his
daring
flights
of
comprehension
, whose
orbit-path
was
so
wide
among
the
stars
that
she
could
not
follow
and
could
only
sit
and
thrill
to
the
impact
of
unguessed
power
. Then
she
played
to
him—no
longer
at
him—and
probed
him
with
music
that
sank
to
depths
beyond
her
plumb-line
. His
nature
opened
to
music
as
a
flower
to
the
sun
, and
the
transition
was
quick
from
his
working-class
rag-time
and
jingles
to
her
classical
display
pieces
that
she
knew
nearly
by
heart
.
Yet
he
betrayed
a
democratic
fondness
for
Wagner
, and
the
“Tannhäuser”
overture
, when
she
had
given
him
the
clew
to
it
, claimed
him
as
nothing
else
she
played
. In
an
immediate
way
it
personified
his
life
. All
his
past
was
the
_Venusburg_
motif
, while
her
he
identified
somehow
with
the
_Pilgrim’s
Chorus_
motif
; and
from
the
exalted
state
this
elevated
him
to
, he
swept
onward
and
upward
into
that
vast
shadow-realm
of
spirit-groping
, where
good
and
evil
war
eternally
.
Sometimes
he
questioned
, and
induced
in
her
mind
temporary
doubts
as
to
the
correctness
of
her
own
definitions
and
conceptions
of
music
. But
her
singing
he
did
not
question
. It
was
too
wholly
her
, and
he
sat
always
amazed
at
the
divine
melody
of
her
pure
soprano
voice
. And
he
could
not
help
but
contrast
it
with
the
weak
pipings
and
shrill
quaverings
of
factory
girls
, ill-nourished
and
untrained
, and
with
the
raucous
shriekings
from
gin-cracked
throats
of
the
women
of
the
seaport
towns
. She
enjoyed
singing
and
playing
to
him
. In
truth
, it
was
the
first
time
she
had
ever
had
a
human
soul
to
play
with
, and
the
plastic
clay
of
him
was
a
delight
to
mould
; for
she
thought
she
was
moulding
it
, and
her
intentions
were
good
. Besides
, it
was
pleasant
to
be
with
him
. He
did
not
repel
her
. That
first
repulsion
had
been
really
a
fear
of
her
undiscovered
self
, and
the
fear
had
gone
to
sleep
. Though
she
did
not
know
it
, she
had
a
feeling
in
him
of
proprietary
right
. Also
,
he
had
a
tonic
effect
upon
her
. She
was
studying
hard
at
the
university
, and
it
seemed
to
strengthen
her
to
emerge
from
the
dusty
books
and
have
the
fresh
sea-breeze
of
his
personality
blow
upon
her
.
Strength
! Strength
was
what
she
needed
, and
he
gave
it
to
her
in
generous
measure
. To
come
into
the
same
room
with
him
, or
to
meet
him
at
the
door
, was
to
take
heart
of
life
. And
when
he
had
gone
, she
would
return
to
her
books
with
a
keener
zest
and
fresh
store
of
energy
.
She
knew
her
Browning
, but
it
had
never
sunk
into
her
that
it
was
an
awkward
thing
to
play
with
souls
. As
her
interest
in
Martin
increased
,
the
remodelling
of
his
life
became
a
passion
with
her
.
“There
is
Mr
. Butler
,”
she
said
one
afternoon
, when
grammar
and
arithmetic
and
poetry
had
been
put
aside
.
“He
had
comparatively
no
advantages
at
first
. His
father
had
been
a
bank
cashier
, but
he
lingered
for
years
, dying
of
consumption
in
Arizona
, so
that
when
he
was
dead
, Mr
. Butler
, Charles
Butler
he
was
called
, found
himself
alone
in
the
world
. His
father
had
come
from
Australia
, you
know
, and
so
he
had
no
relatives
in
California
. He
went
to
work
in
a
printing-office
,—I
have
heard
him
tell
of
it
many
times
,—and
he
got
three
dollars
a
week
, at
first
. His
income
to-day
is
at
least
thirty
thousand
a
year
. How
did
he
do
it
? He
was
honest
, and
faithful
, and
industrious
, and
economical
. He
denied
himself
the
enjoyments
that
most
boys
indulge
in
. He
made
it
a
point
to
save
so
much
every
week
, no
matter
what
he
had
to
do
without
in
order
to
save
it
. Of
course
, he
was
soon
earning
more
than
three
dollars
a
week
, and
as
his
wages
increased
he
saved
more
and
more
.
“He
worked
in
the
daytime
, and
at
night
he
went
to
night
school
. He
had
his
eyes
fixed
always
on
the
future
. Later
on
he
went
to
night
high
school
. When
he
was
only
seventeen
, he
was
earning
excellent
wages
at
setting
type
, but
he
was
ambitious
. He
wanted
a
career
, not
a
livelihood
, and
he
was
content
to
make
immediate
sacrifices
for
his
ultimate
gain
. He
decided
upon
the
law
, and
he
entered
father’s
office
as
an
office
boy—think
of
that
!—and
got
only
four
dollars
a
week
. But
he
had
learned
how
to
be
economical
, and
out
of
that
four
dollars
he
went
on
saving
money
.”
She
paused
for
breath
, and
to
note
how
Martin
was
receiving
it
. His
face
was
lighted
up
with
interest
in
the
youthful
struggles
of
Mr
.
Butler
; but
there
was
a
frown
upon
his
face
as
well
.
“I’d
say
they
was
pretty
hard
lines
for
a
young
fellow
,”
he
remarked
.
“Four
dollars
a
week
! How
could
he
live
on
it
? You
can
bet
he
didn’t
have
any
frills
. Why
, I
pay
five
dollars
a
week
for
board
now
, an’
there’s
nothin’
excitin’
about
it
, you
can
lay
to
that
. He
must
have
lived
like
a
dog
. The
food
he
ate—”
“He
cooked
for
himself
,”
she
interrupted
, “on
a
little
kerosene
stove
.”
“The
food
he
ate
must
have
been
worse
than
what
a
sailor
gets
on
the
worst-feedin’
deep-water
ships
, than
which
there
ain’t
much
that
can
be
possibly
worse
.”
“But
think
of
him
now
!”
she
cried
enthusiastically
. “Think
of
what
his
income
affords
him
. His
early
denials
are
paid
for
a
thousand-fold
.”
Martin
looked
at
her
sharply
.
“There’s
one
thing
I’ll
bet
you
,”
he
said
, “and
it
is
that
Mr
. Butler
is
nothin’
gay-hearted
now
in
his
fat
days
. He
fed
himself
like
that
for
years
an’
years
, on
a
boy’s
stomach
, an’
I
bet
his
stomach’s
none
too
good
now
for
it
.”
Her
eyes
dropped
before
his
searching
gaze
.
“I’ll
bet
he’s
got
dyspepsia
right
now
!”
Martin
challenged
.
“Yes
, he
has
,”
she
confessed
; “but—”
“An’
I
bet
,”
Martin
dashed
on
, “that
he’s
solemn
an’
serious
as
an
old
owl
, an’
doesn’t
care
a
rap
for
a
good
time
, for
all
his
thirty
thousand
a
year
. An’
I’ll
bet
he’s
not
particularly
joyful
at
seein’
others
have
a
good
time
. Ain’t
I
right
?”
She
nodded
her
head
in
agreement
, and
hastened
to
explain
:-
“But
he
is
not
that
type
of
man
. By
nature
he
is
sober
and
serious
. He
always
was
that
.”
“You
can
bet
he
was
,”
Martin
proclaimed
. “Three
dollars
a
week
, an’
four
dollars
a
week
, an’
a
young
boy
cookin’
for
himself
on
an
oil-burner
an’
layin’
up
money
, workin’
all
day
an’
studyin’
all
night
,
just
workin’
an’
never
playin’
, never
havin’
a
good
time
, an’
never
learnin’
how
to
have
a
good
time—of
course
his
thirty
thousand
came
along
too
late
.”
His
sympathetic
imagination
was
flashing
upon
his
inner
sight
all
the
thousands
of
details
of
the
boy’s
existence
and
of
his
narrow
spiritual
development
into
a
thirty-thousand-dollar-a-year
man
. With
the
swiftness
and
wide-reaching
of
multitudinous
thought
Charles
Butler’s
whole
life
was
telescoped
upon
his
vision
.
“Do
you
know
,”
he
added
, “I
feel
sorry
for
Mr
. Butler
. He
was
too
young
to
know
better
, but
he
robbed
himself
of
life
for
the
sake
of
thirty
thousand
a
year
that’s
clean
wasted
upon
him
. Why
, thirty
thousand
,
lump
sum
, wouldn’t
buy
for
him
right
now
what
ten
cents
he
was
layin’
up
would
have
bought
him
, when
he
was
a
kid
, in
the
way
of
candy
an’
peanuts
or
a
seat
in
nigger
heaven
.”
It
was
just
such
uniqueness
of
points
of
view
that
startled
Ruth
. Not
only
were
they
new
to
her
, and
contrary
to
her
own
beliefs
, but
she
always
felt
in
them
germs
of
truth
that
threatened
to
unseat
or
modify
her
own
convictions
. Had
she
been
fourteen
instead
of
twenty-four
, she
might
have
been
changed
by
them
; but
she
was
twenty-four
, conservative
by
nature
and
upbringing
, and
already
crystallized
into
the
cranny
of
life
where
she
had
been
born
and
formed
. It
was
true
, his
bizarre
judgments
troubled
her
in
the
moments
they
were
uttered
, but
she
ascribed
them
to
his
novelty
of
type
and
strangeness
of
living
, and
they
were
soon
forgotten
. Nevertheless
, while
she
disapproved
of
them
,
the
strength
of
their
utterance
, and
the
flashing
of
eyes
and
earnestness
of
face
that
accompanied
them
, always
thrilled
her
and
drew
her
toward
him
. She
would
never
have
guessed
that
this
man
who
had
come
from
beyond
her
horizon
, was
, in
such
moments
, flashing
on
beyond
her
horizon
with
wider
and
deeper
concepts
. Her
own
limits
were
the
limits
of
her
horizon
; but
limited
minds
can
recognize
limitations
only
in
others
. And
so
she
felt
that
her
outlook
was
very
wide
indeed
, and
that
where
his
conflicted
with
hers
marked
his
limitations
; and
she
dreamed
of
helping
him
to
see
as
she
saw
, of
widening
his
horizon
until
it
was
identified
with
hers
.
“But
I
have
not
finished
my
story
,”
she
said
. “He
worked
, so
father
says
, as
no
other
office
boy
he
ever
had
. Mr
. Butler
was
always
eager
to
work
. He
never
was
late
, and
he
was
usually
at
the
office
a
few
minutes
before
his
regular
time
. And
yet
he
saved
his
time
. Every
spare
moment
was
devoted
to
study
. He
studied
book-keeping
and
type-writing
,
and
he
paid
for
lessons
in
shorthand
by
dictating
at
night
to
a
court
reporter
who
needed
practice
. He
quickly
became
a
clerk
, and
he
made
himself
invaluable
. Father
appreciated
him
and
saw
that
he
was
bound
to
rise
. It
was
on
father’s
suggestion
that
he
went
to
law
college
. He
became
a
lawyer
, and
hardly
was
he
back
in
the
office
when
father
took
him
in
as
junior
partner
. He
is
a
great
man
. He
refused
the
United
States
Senate
several
times
, and
father
says
he
could
become
a
justice
of
the
Supreme
Court
any
time
a
vacancy
occurs
, if
he
wants
to
. Such
a
life
is
an
inspiration
to
all
of
us
. It
shows
us
that
a
man
with
will
may
rise
superior
to
his
environment
.”
“He
is
a
great
man
,”
Martin
said
sincerely
.
But
it
seemed
to
him
there
was
something
in
the
recital
that
jarred
upon
his
sense
of
beauty
and
life
. He
could
not
find
an
adequate
motive
in
Mr
. Butler’s
life
of
pinching
and
privation
. Had
he
done
it
for
love
of
a
woman
, or
for
attainment
of
beauty
, Martin
would
have
understood
.
God’s
own
mad
lover
should
do
anything
for
the
kiss
, but
not
for
thirty
thousand
dollars
a
year
. He
was
dissatisfied
with
Mr
. Butler’s
career
.
There
was
something
paltry
about
it
, after
all
. Thirty
thousand
a
year
was
all
right
, but
dyspepsia
and
inability
to
be
humanly
happy
robbed
such
princely
income
of
all
its
value
.
Much
of
this
he
strove
to
express
to
Ruth
, and
shocked
her
and
made
it
clear
that
more
remodelling
was
necessary
. Hers
was
that
common
insularity
of
mind
that
makes
human
creatures
believe
that
their
color
,
creed
, and
politics
are
best
and
right
and
that
other
human
creatures
scattered
over
the
world
are
less
fortunately
placed
than
they
. It
was
the
same
insularity
of
mind
that
made
the
ancient
Jew
thank
God
he
was
not
born
a
woman
, and
sent
the
modern
missionary
god-substituting
to
the
ends
of
the
earth
; and
it
made
Ruth
desire
to
shape
this
man
from
other
crannies
of
life
into
the
likeness
of
the
men
who
lived
in
her
particular
cranny
of
life
.
CHAPTER
IX
.
Back
from
sea
Martin
Eden
came
, homing
for
California
with
a
lover’s
desire
. His
store
of
money
exhausted
, he
had
shipped
before
the
mast
on
the
treasure-hunting
schooner
; and
the
Solomon
Islands
, after
eight
months
of
failure
to
find
treasure
, had
witnessed
the
breaking
up
of
the
expedition
. The
men
had
been
paid
off
in
Australia
, and
Martin
had
immediately
shipped
on
a
deep-water
vessel
for
San
Francisco
. Not
alone
had
those
eight
months
earned
him
enough
money
to
stay
on
land
for
many
weeks
, but
they
had
enabled
him
to
do
a
great
deal
of
studying
and
reading
.
His
was
the
student’s
mind
, and
behind
his
ability
to
learn
was
the
indomitability
of
his
nature
and
his
love
for
Ruth
. The
grammar
he
had
taken
along
he
went
through
again
and
again
until
his
unjaded
brain
had
mastered
it
. He
noticed
the
bad
grammar
used
by
his
shipmates
, and
made
a
point
of
mentally
correcting
and
reconstructing
their
crudities
of
speech
. To
his
great
joy
he
discovered
that
his
ear
was
becoming
sensitive
and
that
he
was
developing
grammatical
nerves
. A
double
negative
jarred
him
like
a
discord
, and
often
, from
lack
of
practice
,
it
was
from
his
own
lips
that
the
jar
came
. His
tongue
refused
to
learn
new
tricks
in
a
day
.
After
he
had
been
through
the
grammar
repeatedly
, he
took
up
the
dictionary
and
added
twenty
words
a
day
to
his
vocabulary
. He
found
that
this
was
no
light
task
, and
at
wheel
or
lookout
he
steadily
went
over
and
over
his
lengthening
list
of
pronunciations
and
definitions
,
while
he
invariably
memorized
himself
to
sleep
. “Never
did
anything
,”
“if
I
were
,”
and
“those
things
,”
were
phrases
, with
many
variations
,
that
he
repeated
under
his
breath
in
order
to
accustom
his
tongue
to
the
language
spoken
by
Ruth
. “And”
and
“ing
,”
with
the
“d”
and
“g”
pronounced
emphatically
, he
went
over
thousands
of
times
; and
to
his
surprise
he
noticed
that
he
was
beginning
to
speak
cleaner
and
more
correct
English
than
the
officers
themselves
and
the
gentleman-adventurers
in
the
cabin
who
had
financed
the
expedition
.
The
captain
was
a
fishy-eyed
Norwegian
who
somehow
had
fallen
into
possession
of
a
complete
Shakespeare
, which
he
never
read
, and
Martin
had
washed
his
clothes
for
him
and
in
return
been
permitted
access
to
the
precious
volumes
. For
a
time
, so
steeped
was
he
in
the
plays
and
in
the
many
favorite
passages
that
impressed
themselves
almost
without
effort
on
his
brain
, that
all
the
world
seemed
to
shape
itself
into
forms
of
Elizabethan
tragedy
or
comedy
and
his
very
thoughts
were
in
blank
verse
. It
trained
his
ear
and
gave
him
a
fine
appreciation
for
noble
English
; withal
it
introduced
into
his
mind
much
that
was
archaic
and
obsolete
.
The
eight
months
had
been
well
spent
, and
, in
addition
to
what
he
had
learned
of
right
speaking
and
high
thinking
, he
had
learned
much
of
himself
. Along
with
his
humbleness
because
he
knew
so
little
, there
arose
a
conviction
of
power
. He
felt
a
sharp
gradation
between
himself
and
his
shipmates
, and
was
wise
enough
to
realize
that
the
difference
lay
in
potentiality
rather
than
achievement
. What
he
could
do
,—they
could
do
; but
within
him
he
felt
a
confused
ferment
working
that
told
him
there
was
more
in
him
than
he
had
done
. He
was
tortured
by
the
exquisite
beauty
of
the
world
, and
wished
that
Ruth
were
there
to
share
it
with
him
. He
decided
that
he
would
describe
to
her
many
of
the
bits
of
South
Sea
beauty
. The
creative
spirit
in
him
flamed
up
at
the
thought
and
urged
that
he
recreate
this
beauty
for
a
wider
audience
than
Ruth
. And
then
, in
splendor
and
glory
, came
the
great
idea
. He
would
write
. He
would
be
one
of
the
eyes
through
which
the
world
saw
,
one
of
the
ears
through
which
it
heard
, one
of
the
hearts
through
which
it
felt
. He
would
write—everything—poetry
and
prose
, fiction
and
description
, and
plays
like
Shakespeare
. There
was
career
and
the
way
to
win
to
Ruth
. The
men
of
literature
were
the
world’s
giants
, and
he
conceived
them
to
be
far
finer
than
the
Mr
. Butlers
who
earned
thirty
thousand
a
year
and
could
be
Supreme
Court
justices
if
they
wanted
to
.
Once
the
idea
had
germinated
, it
mastered
him
, and
the
return
voyage
to
San
Francisco
was
like
a
dream
. He
was
drunken
with
unguessed
power
and
felt
that
he
could
do
anything
. In
the
midst
of
the
great
and
lonely
sea
he
gained
perspective
. Clearly
, and
for
the
first
time
, he
saw
Ruth
and
her
world
. It
was
all
visualized
in
his
mind
as
a
concrete
thing
which
he
could
take
up
in
his
two
hands
and
turn
around
and
about
and
examine
. There
was
much
that
was
dim
and
nebulous
in
that
world
, but
he
saw
it
as
a
whole
and
not
in
detail
, and
he
saw
, also
, the
way
to
master
it
. To
write
! The
thought
was
fire
in
him
. He
would
begin
as
soon
as
he
got
back
. The
first
thing
he
would
do
would
be
to
describe
the
voyage
of
the
treasure-hunters
. He
would
sell
it
to
some
San
Francisco
newspaper
. He
would
not
tell
Ruth
anything
about
it
, and
she
would
be
surprised
and
pleased
when
she
saw
his
name
in
print
. While
he
wrote
, he
could
go
on
studying
. There
were
twenty-four
hours
in
each
day
. He
was
invincible
. He
knew
how
to
work
, and
the
citadels
would
go
down
before
him
. He
would
not
have
to
go
to
sea
again—as
a
sailor
; and
for
the
instant
he
caught
a
vision
of
a
steam
yacht
. There
were
other
writers
who
possessed
steam
yachts
. Of
course
, he
cautioned
himself
, it
would
be
slow
succeeding
at
first
, and
for
a
time
he
would
be
content
to
earn
enough
money
by
his
writing
to
enable
him
to
go
on
studying
.
And
then
, after
some
time
,—a
very
indeterminate
time
,—when
he
had
learned
and
prepared
himself
, he
would
write
the
great
things
and
his
name
would
be
on
all
men’s
lips
. But
greater
than
that
, infinitely
greater
and
greatest
of
all
, he
would
have
proved
himself
worthy
of
Ruth
. Fame
was
all
very
well
, but
it
was
for
Ruth
that
his
splendid
dream
arose
. He
was
not
a
fame-monger
, but
merely
one
of
God’s
mad
lovers
.
Arrived
in
Oakland
, with
his
snug
pay-day
in
his
pocket
, he
took
up
his
old
room
at
Bernard
Higginbotham’s
and
set
to
work
. He
did
not
even
let
Ruth
know
he
was
back
. He
would
go
and
see
her
when
he
finished
the
article
on
the
treasure-hunters
. It
was
not
so
difficult
to
abstain
from
seeing
her
, because
of
the
violent
heat
of
creative
fever
that
burned
in
him
. Besides
, the
very
article
he
was
writing
would
bring
her
nearer
to
him
. He
did
not
know
how
long
an
article
he
should
write
, but
he
counted
the
words
in
a
double-page
article
in
the
Sunday
supplement
of
the
_San
Francisco
Examiner_
, and
guided
himself
by
that
. Three
days
, at
white
heat
, completed
his
narrative
; but
when
he
had
copied
it
carefully
, in
a
large
scrawl
that
was
easy
to
read
, he
learned
from
a
rhetoric
he
picked
up
in
the
library
that
there
were
such
things
as
paragraphs
and
quotation
marks
. He
had
never
thought
of
such
things
before
; and
he
promptly
set
to
work
writing
the
article
over
, referring
continually
to
the
pages
of
the
rhetoric
and
learning
more
in
a
day
about
composition
than
the
average
schoolboy
in
a
year
. When
he
had
copied
the
article
a
second
time
and
rolled
it
up
carefully
, he
read
in
a
newspaper
an
item
on
hints
to
beginners
, and
discovered
the
iron
law
that
manuscripts
should
never
be
rolled
and
that
they
should
be
written
on
one
side
of
the
paper
. He
had
violated
the
law
on
both
counts
. Also
,
he
learned
from
the
item
that
first-class
papers
paid
a
minimum
of
ten
dollars
a
column
. So
, while
he
copied
the
manuscript
a
third
time
, he
consoled
himself
by
multiplying
ten
columns
by
ten
dollars
. The
product
was
always
the
same
, one
hundred
dollars
, and
he
decided
that
that
was
better
than
seafaring
. If
it
hadn’t
been
for
his
blunders
, he
would
have
finished
the
article
in
three
days
. One
hundred
dollars
in
three
days
! It
would
have
taken
him
three
months
and
longer
on
the
sea
to
earn
a
similar
amount
. A
man
was
a
fool
to
go
to
sea
when
he
could
write
, he
concluded
, though
the
money
in
itself
meant
nothing
to
him
.
Its
value
was
in
the
liberty
it
would
get
him
, the
presentable
garments
it
would
buy
him
, all
of
which
would
bring
him
nearer
, swiftly
nearer
,
to
the
slender
, pale
girl
who
had
turned
his
life
back
upon
itself
and
given
him
inspiration
.
He
mailed
the
manuscript
in
a
flat
envelope
, and
addressed
it
to
the
editor
of
the
_San
Francisco
Examiner_
. He
had
an
idea
that
anything
accepted
by
a
paper
was
published
immediately
, and
as
he
had
sent
the
manuscript
in
on
Friday
he
expected
it
to
come
out
on
the
following
Sunday
. He
conceived
that
it
would
be
fine
to
let
that
event
apprise
Ruth
of
his
return
. Then
, Sunday
afternoon
, he
would
call
and
see
her
.
In
the
meantime
he
was
occupied
by
another
idea
, which
he
prided
himself
upon
as
being
a
particularly
sane
, careful
, and
modest
idea
. He
would
write
an
adventure
story
for
boys
and
sell
it
to
_The
Youth’s
Companion_
. He
went
to
the
free
reading-room
and
looked
through
the
files
of
_The
Youth’s
Companion_
. Serial
stories
, he
found
, were
usually
published
in
that
weekly
in
five
instalments
of
about
three
thousand
words
each
. He
discovered
several
serials
that
ran
to
seven
instalments
, and
decided
to
write
one
of
that
length
.
He
had
been
on
a
whaling
voyage
in
the
Arctic
, once—a
voyage
that
was
to
have
been
for
three
years
and
which
had
terminated
in
shipwreck
at
the
end
of
six
months
. While
his
imagination
was
fanciful
, even
fantastic
at
times
, he
had
a
basic
love
of
reality
that
compelled
him
to
write
about
the
things
he
knew
. He
knew
whaling
, and
out
of
the
real
materials
of
his
knowledge
he
proceeded
to
manufacture
the
fictitious
adventures
of
the
two
boys
he
intended
to
use
as
joint
heroes
. It
was
easy
work
, he
decided
on
Saturday
evening
. He
had
completed
on
that
day
the
first
instalment
of
three
thousand
words—much
to
the
amusement
of
Jim
, and
to
the
open
derision
of
Mr
. Higginbotham
, who
sneered
throughout
meal-time
at
the
“litery”
person
they
had
discovered
in
the
family
.
Martin
contented
himself
by
picturing
his
brother-in-law’s
surprise
on
Sunday
morning
when
he
opened
his
_Examiner_
and
saw
the
article
on
the
treasure-hunters
. Early
that
morning
he
was
out
himself
to
the
front
door
, nervously
racing
through
the
many-sheeted
newspaper
. He
went
through
it
a
second
time
, very
carefully
, then
folded
it
up
and
left
it
where
he
had
found
it
. He
was
glad
he
had
not
told
any
one
about
his
article
. On
second
thought
he
concluded
that
he
had
been
wrong
about
the
speed
with
which
things
found
their
way
into
newspaper
columns
.
Besides
, there
had
not
been
any
news
value
in
his
article
, and
most
likely
the
editor
would
write
to
him
about
it
first
.
After
breakfast
he
went
on
with
his
serial
. The
words
flowed
from
his
pen
, though
he
broke
off
from
the
writing
frequently
to
look
up
definitions
in
the
dictionary
or
to
refer
to
the
rhetoric
. He
often
read
or
re-read
a
chapter
at
a
time
, during
such
pauses
; and
he
consoled
himself
that
while
he
was
not
writing
the
great
things
he
felt
to
be
in
him
, he
was
learning
composition
, at
any
rate
, and
training
himself
to
shape
up
and
express
his
thoughts
. He
toiled
on
till
dark
,
when
he
went
out
to
the
reading-room
and
explored
magazines
and
weeklies
until
the
place
closed
at
ten
o’clock
. This
was
his
programme
for
a
week
. Each
day
he
did
three
thousand
words
, and
each
evening
he
puzzled
his
way
through
the
magazines
, taking
note
of
the
stories
,
articles
, and
poems
that
editors
saw
fit
to
publish
. One
thing
was
certain
: What
these
multitudinous
writers
did
he
could
do
, and
only
give
him
time
and
he
would
do
what
they
could
not
do
. He
was
cheered
to
read
in
_Book
News_
, in
a
paragraph
on
the
payment
of
magazine
writers
,
not
that
Rudyard
Kipling
received
a
dollar
per
word
, but
that
the
minimum
rate
paid
by
first-class
magazines
was
two
cents
a
word
. _The
Youth’s
Companion_
was
certainly
first
class
, and
at
that
rate
the
three
thousand
words
he
had
written
that
day
would
bring
him
sixty
dollars—two
months’
wages
on
the
sea
!
On
Friday
night
he
finished
the
serial
, twenty-one
thousand
words
long
.
At
two
cents
a
word
, he
calculated
, that
would
bring
him
four
hundred
and
twenty
dollars
. Not
a
bad
week’s
work
. It
was
more
money
than
he
had
ever
possessed
at
one
time
. He
did
not
know
how
he
could
spend
it
all
. He
had
tapped
a
gold
mine
. Where
this
came
from
he
could
always
get
more
. He
planned
to
buy
some
more
clothes
, to
subscribe
to
many
magazines
, and
to
buy
dozens
of
reference
books
that
at
present
he
was
compelled
to
go
to
the
library
to
consult
. And
still
there
was
a
large
portion
of
the
four
hundred
and
twenty
dollars
unspent
. This
worried
him
until
the
thought
came
to
him
of
hiring
a
servant
for
Gertrude
and
of
buying
a
bicycle
for
Marian
.
He
mailed
the
bulky
manuscript
to
_The
Youth’s
Companion_
, and
on
Saturday
afternoon
, after
having
planned
an
article
on
pearl-diving
, he
went
to
see
Ruth
. He
had
telephoned
, and
she
went
herself
to
greet
him
at
the
door
. The
old
familiar
blaze
of
health
rushed
out
from
him
and
struck
her
like
a
blow
. It
seemed
to
enter
into
her
body
and
course
through
her
veins
in
a
liquid
glow
, and
to
set
her
quivering
with
its
imparted
strength
. He
flushed
warmly
as
he
took
her
hand
and
looked
into
her
blue
eyes
, but
the
fresh
bronze
of
eight
months
of
sun
hid
the
flush
, though
it
did
not
protect
the
neck
from
the
gnawing
chafe
of
the
stiff
collar
. She
noted
the
red
line
of
it
with
amusement
which
quickly
vanished
as
she
glanced
at
his
clothes
. They
really
fitted
him
,—it
was
his
first
made-to-order
suit
,—and
he
seemed
slimmer
and
better
modelled
. In
addition
, his
cloth
cap
had
been
replaced
by
a
soft
hat
,
which
she
commanded
him
to
put
on
and
then
complimented
him
on
his
appearance
. She
did
not
remember
when
she
had
felt
so
happy
. This
change
in
him
was
her
handiwork
, and
she
was
proud
of
it
and
fired
with
ambition
further
to
help
him
.
But
the
most
radical
change
of
all
, and
the
one
that
pleased
her
most
,
was
the
change
in
his
speech
. Not
only
did
he
speak
more
correctly
, but
he
spoke
more
easily
, and
there
were
many
new
words
in
his
vocabulary
.
When
he
grew
excited
or
enthusiastic
, however
, he
dropped
back
into
the
old
slurring
and
the
dropping
of
final
consonants
. Also
, there
was
an
awkward
hesitancy
, at
times
, as
he
essayed
the
new
words
he
had
learned
. On
the
other
hand
, along
with
his
ease
of
expression
, he
displayed
a
lightness
and
facetiousness
of
thought
that
delighted
her
.
It
was
his
old
spirit
of
humor
and
badinage
that
had
made
him
a
favorite
in
his
own
class
, but
which
he
had
hitherto
been
unable
to
use
in
her
presence
through
lack
of
words
and
training
. He
was
just
beginning
to
orientate
himself
and
to
feel
that
he
was
not
wholly
an
intruder
. But
he
was
very
tentative
, fastidiously
so
, letting
Ruth
set
the
pace
of
sprightliness
and
fancy
, keeping
up
with
her
but
never
daring
to
go
beyond
her
.
He
told
her
of
what
he
had
been
doing
, and
of
his
plan
to
write
for
a
livelihood
and
of
going
on
with
his
studies
. But
he
was
disappointed
at
her
lack
of
approval
. She
did
not
think
much
of
his
plan
.
“You
see
,”
she
said
frankly
, “writing
must
be
a
trade
, like
anything
else
. Not
that
I
know
anything
about
it
, of
course
. I
only
bring
common
judgment
to
bear
. You
couldn’t
hope
to
be
a
blacksmith
without
spending
three
years
at
learning
the
trade—or
is
it
five
years
! Now
writers
are
so
much
better
paid
than
blacksmiths
that
there
must
be
ever
so
many
more
men
who
would
like
to
write
, who—try
to
write
.”
“But
then
, may
not
I
be
peculiarly
constituted
to
write
?”
he
queried
,
secretly
exulting
at
the
language
he
had
used
, his
swift
imagination
throwing
the
whole
scene
and
atmosphere
upon
a
vast
screen
along
with
a
thousand
other
scenes
from
his
life—scenes
that
were
rough
and
raw
,
gross
and
bestial
.
The
whole
composite
vision
was
achieved
with
the
speed
of
light
,
producing
no
pause
in
the
conversation
, nor
interrupting
his
calm
train
of
thought
. On
the
screen
of
his
imagination
he
saw
himself
and
this
sweet
and
beautiful
girl
, facing
each
other
and
conversing
in
good
English
, in
a
room
of
books
and
paintings
and
tone
and
culture
, and
all
illuminated
by
a
bright
light
of
steadfast
brilliance
; while
ranged
about
and
fading
away
to
the
remote
edges
of
the
screen
were
antithetical
scenes
, each
scene
a
picture
, and
he
the
onlooker
, free
to
look
at
will
upon
what
he
wished
. He
saw
these
other
scenes
through
drifting
vapors
and
swirls
of
sullen
fog
dissolving
before
shafts
of
red
and
garish
light
. He
saw
cowboys
at
the
bar
, drinking
fierce
whiskey
, the
air
filled
with
obscenity
and
ribald
language
, and
he
saw
himself
with
them
drinking
and
cursing
with
the
wildest
, or
sitting
at
table
with
them
, under
smoking
kerosene
lamps
, while
the
chips
clicked
and
clattered
and
the
cards
were
dealt
around
. He
saw
himself
, stripped
to
the
waist
, with
naked
fists
, fighting
his
great
fight
with
Liverpool
Red
in
the
forecastle
of
the
_Susquehanna_
; and
he
saw
the
bloody
deck
of
the
_John
Rogers_
, that
gray
morning
of
attempted
mutiny
, the
mate
kicking
in
death-throes
on
the
main-hatch
, the
revolver
in
the
old
man’s
hand
spitting
fire
and
smoke
, the
men
with
passion-wrenched
faces
, of
brutes
screaming
vile
blasphemies
and
falling
about
him—and
then
he
returned
to
the
central
scene
, calm
and
clean
in
the
steadfast
light
, where
Ruth
sat
and
talked
with
him
amid
books
and
paintings
; and
he
saw
the
grand
piano
upon
which
she
would
later
play
to
him
; and
he
heard
the
echoes
of
his
own
selected
and
correct
words
, “But
then
, may
I
not
be
peculiarly
constituted
to
write
?”
“But
no
matter
how
peculiarly
constituted
a
man
may
be
for
blacksmithing
,”
she
was
laughing
, “I
never
heard
of
one
becoming
a
blacksmith
without
first
serving
his
apprenticeship
.”
“What
would
you
advise
?”
he
asked
. “And
don’t
forget
that
I
feel
in
me
this
capacity
to
write—I
can’t
explain
it
; I
just
know
that
it
is
in
me
.”
“You
must
get
a
thorough
education
,”
was
the
answer
, “whether
or
not
you
ultimately
become
a
writer
. This
education
is
indispensable
for
whatever
career
you
select
, and
it
must
not
be
slipshod
or
sketchy
. You
should
go
to
high
school
.”
“Yes—”
he
began
; but
she
interrupted
with
an
afterthought
:-
“Of
course
, you
could
go
on
with
your
writing
, too
.”
“I
would
have
to
,”
he
said
grimly
.
“Why
?”
She
looked
at
him
, prettily
puzzled
, for
she
did
not
quite
like
the
persistence
with
which
he
clung
to
his
notion
.
“Because
, without
writing
there
wouldn’t
be
any
high
school
. I
must
live
and
buy
books
and
clothes
, you
know
.”
“I’d
forgotten
that
,”
she
laughed
. “Why
weren’t
you
born
with
an
income
?”
“I’d
rather
have
good
health
and
imagination
,”
he
answered
. “I
can
make
good
on
the
income
, but
the
other
things
have
to
be
made
good
for—”
He
almost
said
“you
,”
then
amended
his
sentence
to
, “have
to
be
made
good
for
one
.”
“Don’t
say
‘make
good
,’”
she
cried
, sweetly
petulant
. “It’s
slang
, and
it’s
horrid
.”
He
flushed
, and
stammered
, “That’s
right
, and
I
only
wish
you’d
correct
me
every
time
.”
“I—I’d
like
to
,”
she
said
haltingly
. “You
have
so
much
in
you
that
is
good
that
I
want
to
see
you
perfect
.”
He
was
clay
in
her
hands
immediately
, as
passionately
desirous
of
being
moulded
by
her
as
she
was
desirous
of
shaping
him
into
the
image
of
her
ideal
of
man
. And
when
she
pointed
out
the
opportuneness
of
the
time
,
that
the
entrance
examinations
to
high
school
began
on
the
following
Monday
, he
promptly
volunteered
that
he
would
take
them
.
Then
she
played
and
sang
to
him
, while
he
gazed
with
hungry
yearning
at
her
, drinking
in
her
loveliness
and
marvelling
that
there
should
not
be
a
hundred
suitors
listening
there
and
longing
for
her
as
he
listened
and
longed
.
CHAPTER
X
.
He
stopped
to
dinner
that
evening
, and
, much
to
Ruth’s
satisfaction
,
made
a
favorable
impression
on
her
father
. They
talked
about
the
sea
as
a
career
, a
subject
which
Martin
had
at
his
finger-ends
, and
Mr
. Morse
remarked
afterward
that
he
seemed
a
very
clear-headed
young
man
. In
his
avoidance
of
slang
and
his
search
after
right
words
, Martin
was
compelled
to
talk
slowly
, which
enabled
him
to
find
the
best
thoughts
that
were
in
him
. He
was
more
at
ease
than
that
first
night
at
dinner
,
nearly
a
year
before
, and
his
shyness
and
modesty
even
commended
him
to
Mrs
. Morse
, who
was
pleased
at
his
manifest
improvement
.
“He
is
the
first
man
that
ever
drew
passing
notice
from
Ruth
,”
she
told
her
husband
. “She
has
been
so
singularly
backward
where
men
are
concerned
that
I
have
been
worried
greatly
.”
Mr
. Morse
looked
at
his
wife
curiously
.
“You
mean
to
use
this
young
sailor
to
wake
her
up
?”
he
questioned
.
“I
mean
that
she
is
not
to
die
an
old
maid
if
I
can
help
it
,”
was
the
answer
. “If
this
young
Eden
can
arouse
her
interest
in
mankind
in
general
, it
will
be
a
good
thing
.”
“A
very
good
thing
,”
he
commented
. “But
suppose
,—and
we
must
suppose
,
sometimes
, my
dear
,—suppose
he
arouses
her
interest
too
particularly
in
him
?”
“Impossible
,”
Mrs
. Morse
laughed
. “She
is
three
years
older
than
he
,
and
, besides
, it
is
impossible
. Nothing
will
ever
come
of
it
. Trust
that
to
me
.”
And
so
Martin’s
rôle
was
arranged
for
him
, while
he
, led
on
by
Arthur
and
Norman
, was
meditating
an
extravagance
. They
were
going
out
for
a
ride
into
the
hills
Sunday
morning
on
their
wheels
, which
did
not
interest
Martin
until
he
learned
that
Ruth
, too
, rode
a
wheel
and
was
going
along
. He
did
not
ride
, nor
own
a
wheel
, but
if
Ruth
rode
, it
was
up
to
him
to
begin
, was
his
decision
; and
when
he
said
good
night
, he
stopped
in
at
a
cyclery
on
his
way
home
and
spent
forty
dollars
for
a
wheel
. It
was
more
than
a
month’s
hard-earned
wages
, and
it
reduced
his
stock
of
money
amazingly
; but
when
he
added
the
hundred
dollars
he
was
to
receive
from
the
_Examiner_
to
the
four
hundred
and
twenty
dollars
that
was
the
least
_The
Youth’s
Companion_
could
pay
him
, he
felt
that
he
had
reduced
the
perplexity
the
unwonted
amount
of
money
had
caused
him
. Nor
did
he
mind
, in
the
course
of
learning
to
ride
the
wheel
home
,
the
fact
that
he
ruined
his
suit
of
clothes
. He
caught
the
tailor
by
telephone
that
night
from
Mr
. Higginbotham’s
store
and
ordered
another
suit
. Then
he
carried
the
wheel
up
the
narrow
stairway
that
clung
like
a
fire-escape
to
the
rear
wall
of
the
building
, and
when
he
had
moved
his
bed
out
from
the
wall
, found
there
was
just
space
enough
in
the
small
room
for
himself
and
the
wheel
.
Sunday
he
had
intended
to
devote
to
studying
for
the
high
school
examination
, but
the
pearl-diving
article
lured
him
away
, and
he
spent
the
day
in
the
white-hot
fever
of
re-creating
the
beauty
and
romance
that
burned
in
him
. The
fact
that
the
_Examiner_
of
that
morning
had
failed
to
publish
his
treasure-hunting
article
did
not
dash
his
spirits
. He
was
at
too
great
a
height
for
that
, and
having
been
deaf
to
a
twice-repeated
summons
, he
went
without
the
heavy
Sunday
dinner
with
which
Mr
. Higginbotham
invariably
graced
his
table
. To
Mr
. Higginbotham
such
a
dinner
was
advertisement
of
his
worldly
achievement
and
prosperity
, and
he
honored
it
by
delivering
platitudinous
sermonettes
upon
American
institutions
and
the
opportunity
said
institutions
gave
to
any
hard-working
man
to
rise—the
rise
, in
his
case
, which
he
pointed
out
unfailingly
, being
from
a
grocer’s
clerk
to
the
ownership
of
Higginbotham’s
Cash
Store
.
Martin
Eden
looked
with
a
sigh
at
his
unfinished
“Pearl-diving”
on
Monday
morning
, and
took
the
car
down
to
Oakland
to
the
high
school
.
And
when
, days
later
, he
applied
for
the
results
of
his
examinations
,
he
learned
that
he
had
failed
in
everything
save
grammar
.
“Your
grammar
is
excellent
,”
Professor
Hilton
informed
him
, staring
at
him
through
heavy
spectacles
; “but
you
know
nothing
, positively
nothing
, in
the
other
branches
, and
your
United
States
history
is
abominable—there
is
no
other
word
for
it
, abominable
. I
should
advise
you—”
Professor
Hilton
paused
and
glared
at
him
, unsympathetic
and
unimaginative
as
one
of
his
own
test-tubes
. He
was
professor
of
physics
in
the
high
school
, possessor
of
a
large
family
, a
meagre
salary
, and
a
select
fund
of
parrot-learned
knowledge
.
“Yes
, sir
,”
Martin
said
humbly
, wishing
somehow
that
the
man
at
the
desk
in
the
library
was
in
Professor
Hilton’s
place
just
then
.
“And
I
should
advise
you
to
go
back
to
the
grammar
school
for
at
least
two
years
. Good
day
.”
Martin
was
not
deeply
affected
by
his
failure
, though
he
was
surprised
at
Ruth’s
shocked
expression
when
he
told
her
Professor
Hilton’s
advice
. Her
disappointment
was
so
evident
that
he
was
sorry
he
had
failed
, but
chiefly
so
for
her
sake
.
“You
see
I
was
right
,”
she
said
. “You
know
far
more
than
any
of
the
students
entering
high
school
, and
yet
you
can’t
pass
the
examinations
.
It
is
because
what
education
you
have
is
fragmentary
, sketchy
. You
need
the
discipline
of
study
, such
as
only
skilled
teachers
can
give
you
.
You
must
be
thoroughly
grounded
. Professor
Hilton
is
right
, and
if
I
were
you
, I’d
go
to
night
school
. A
year
and
a
half
of
it
might
enable
you
to
catch
up
that
additional
six
months
. Besides
, that
would
leave
you
your
days
in
which
to
write
, or
, if
you
could
not
make
your
living
by
your
pen
, you
would
have
your
days
in
which
to
work
in
some
position
.”
But
if
my
days
are
taken
up
with
work
and
my
nights
with
school
, when
am
I
going
to
see
you
?—was
Martin’s
first
thought
, though
he
refrained
from
uttering
it
. Instead
, he
said
:-
“It
seems
so
babyish
for
me
to
be
going
to
night
school
. But
I
wouldn’t
mind
that
if
I
thought
it
would
pay
. But
I
don’t
think
it
will
pay
. I
can
do
the
work
quicker
than
they
can
teach
me
. It
would
be
a
loss
of
time—”
he
thought
of
her
and
his
desire
to
have
her—“and
I
can’t
afford
the
time
. I
haven’t
the
time
to
spare
, in
fact
.”
“There
is
so
much
that
is
necessary
.”
She
looked
at
him
gently
, and
he
was
a
brute
to
oppose
her
. “Physics
and
chemistry—you
can’t
do
them
without
laboratory
study
; and
you’ll
find
algebra
and
geometry
almost
hopeless
without
instruction
. You
need
the
skilled
teachers
, the
specialists
in
the
art
of
imparting
knowledge
.”
He
was
silent
for
a
minute
, casting
about
for
the
least
vainglorious
way
in
which
to
express
himself
.
“Please
don’t
think
I’m
bragging
,”
he
began
. “I
don’t
intend
it
that
way
at
all
. But
I
have
a
feeling
that
I
am
what
I
may
call
a
natural
student
. I
can
study
by
myself
. I
take
to
it
kindly
, like
a
duck
to
water
. You
see
yourself
what
I
did
with
grammar
. And
I’ve
learned
much
of
other
things—you
would
never
dream
how
much
. And
I’m
only
getting
started
. Wait
till
I
get—”
He
hesitated
and
assured
himself
of
the
pronunciation
before
he
said
“momentum
. I’m
getting
my
first
real
feel
of
things
now
. I’m
beginning
to
size
up
the
situation—”
“Please
don’t
say
‘size
up
,’”
she
interrupted
.
“To
get
a
line
on
things
,”
he
hastily
amended
.
“That
doesn’t
mean
anything
in
correct
English
,”
she
objected
.
He
floundered
for
a
fresh
start
.
“What
I’m
driving
at
is
that
I’m
beginning
to
get
the
lay
of
the
land
.”
Out
of
pity
she
forebore
, and
he
went
on
.
“Knowledge
seems
to
me
like
a
chart-room
. Whenever
I
go
into
the
library
, I
am
impressed
that
way
. The
part
played
by
teachers
is
to
teach
the
student
the
contents
of
the
chart-room
in
a
systematic
way
.
The
teachers
are
guides
to
the
chart-room
, that’s
all
. It’s
not
something
that
they
have
in
their
own
heads
. They
don’t
make
it
up
,
don’t
create
it
. It’s
all
in
the
chart-room
and
they
know
their
way
about
in
it
, and
it’s
their
business
to
show
the
place
to
strangers
who
might
else
get
lost
. Now
I
don’t
get
lost
easily
. I
have
the
bump
of
location
. I
usually
know
where
I’m
at—What’s
wrong
now
?”
“Don’t
say
‘where
I’m
at
.’”
“That’s
right
,”
he
said
gratefully
, “where
I
am
. But
where
am
I
at—I
mean
, where
am
I
? Oh
, yes
, in
the
chart-room
. Well
, some
people—”
“Persons
,”
she
corrected
.
“Some
persons
need
guides
, most
persons
do
; but
I
think
I
can
get
along
without
them
. I’ve
spent
a
lot
of
time
in
the
chart-room
now
, and
I’m
on
the
edge
of
knowing
my
way
about
, what
charts
I
want
to
refer
to
,
what
coasts
I
want
to
explore
. And
from
the
way
I
line
it
up
, I’ll
explore
a
whole
lot
more
quickly
by
myself
. The
speed
of
a
fleet
, you
know
, is
the
speed
of
the
slowest
ship
, and
the
speed
of
the
teachers
is
affected
the
same
way
. They
can’t
go
any
faster
than
the
ruck
of
their
scholars
, and
I
can
set
a
faster
pace
for
myself
than
they
set
for
a
whole
schoolroom
.”
“‘He
travels
the
fastest
who
travels
alone
,’”
she
quoted
at
him
.
But
I’d
travel
faster
with
you
just
the
same
, was
what
he
wanted
to
blurt
out
, as
he
caught
a
vision
of
a
world
without
end
of
sunlit
spaces
and
starry
voids
through
which
he
drifted
with
her
, his
arm
around
her
, her
pale
gold
hair
blowing
about
his
face
. In
the
same
instant
he
was
aware
of
the
pitiful
inadequacy
of
speech
. God
! If
he
could
so
frame
words
that
she
could
see
what
he
then
saw
! And
he
felt
the
stir
in
him
, like
a
throe
of
yearning
pain
, of
the
desire
to
paint
these
visions
that
flashed
unsummoned
on
the
mirror
of
his
mind
. Ah
,
that
was
it
! He
caught
at
the
hem
of
the
secret
. It
was
the
very
thing
that
the
great
writers
and
master-poets
did
. That
was
why
they
were
giants
. They
knew
how
to
express
what
they
thought
, and
felt
, and
saw
.
Dogs
asleep
in
the
sun
often
whined
and
barked
, but
they
were
unable
to
tell
what
they
saw
that
made
them
whine
and
bark
. He
had
often
wondered
what
it
was
. And
that
was
all
he
was
, a
dog
asleep
in
the
sun
. He
saw
noble
and
beautiful
visions
, but
he
could
only
whine
and
bark
at
Ruth
.
But
he
would
cease
sleeping
in
the
sun
. He
would
stand
up
, with
open
eyes
, and
he
would
struggle
and
toil
and
learn
until
, with
eyes
unblinded
and
tongue
untied
, he
could
share
with
her
his
visioned
wealth
. Other
men
had
discovered
the
trick
of
expression
, of
making
words
obedient
servitors
, and
of
making
combinations
of
words
mean
more
than
the
sum
of
their
separate
meanings
. He
was
stirred
profoundly
by
the
passing
glimpse
at
the
secret
, and
he
was
again
caught
up
in
the
vision
of
sunlit
spaces
and
starry
voids—until
it
came
to
him
that
it
was
very
quiet
, and
he
saw
Ruth
regarding
him
with
an
amused
expression
and
a
smile
in
her
eyes
.
“I
have
had
a
great
visioning
,”
he
said
, and
at
the
sound
of
his
words
in
his
own
ears
his
heart
gave
a
leap
. Where
had
those
words
come
from
?
They
had
adequately
expressed
the
pause
his
vision
had
put
in
the
conversation
. It
was
a
miracle
. Never
had
he
so
loftily
framed
a
lofty
thought
. But
never
had
he
attempted
to
frame
lofty
thoughts
in
words
.
That
was
it
. That
explained
it
. He
had
never
tried
. But
Swinburne
had
,
and
Tennyson
, and
Kipling
, and
all
the
other
poets
. His
mind
flashed
on
to
his
“Pearl-diving
.”
He
had
never
dared
the
big
things
, the
spirit
of
the
beauty
that
was
a
fire
in
him
. That
article
would
be
a
different
thing
when
he
was
done
with
it
. He
was
appalled
by
the
vastness
of
the
beauty
that
rightfully
belonged
in
it
, and
again
his
mind
flashed
and
dared
, and
he
demanded
of
himself
why
he
could
not
chant
that
beauty
in
noble
verse
as
the
great
poets
did
. And
there
was
all
the
mysterious
delight
and
spiritual
wonder
of
his
love
for
Ruth
. Why
could
he
not
chant
that
, too
, as
the
poets
did
? They
had
sung
of
love
. So
would
he
.
By
God
!—
And
in
his
frightened
ears
he
heard
his
exclamation
echoing
. Carried
away
, he
had
breathed
it
aloud
. The
blood
surged
into
his
face
, wave
upon
wave
, mastering
the
bronze
of
it
till
the
blush
of
shame
flaunted
itself
from
collar-rim
to
the
roots
of
his
hair
.
“I—I—beg
your
pardon
,”
he
stammered
. “I
was
thinking
.”
“It
sounded
as
if
you
were
praying
,”
she
said
bravely
, but
she
felt
herself
inside
to
be
withering
and
shrinking
. It
was
the
first
time
she
had
heard
an
oath
from
the
lips
of
a
man
she
knew
, and
she
was
shocked
,
not
merely
as
a
matter
of
principle
and
training
, but
shocked
in
spirit
by
this
rough
blast
of
life
in
the
garden
of
her
sheltered
maidenhood
.
But
she
forgave
, and
with
surprise
at
the
ease
of
her
forgiveness
.
Somehow
it
was
not
so
difficult
to
forgive
him
anything
. He
had
not
had
a
chance
to
be
as
other
men
, and
he
was
trying
so
hard
, and
succeeding
,
too
. It
never
entered
her
head
that
there
could
be
any
other
reason
for
her
being
kindly
disposed
toward
him
. She
was
tenderly
disposed
toward
him
, but
she
did
not
know
it
. She
had
no
way
of
knowing
it
. The
placid
poise
of
twenty-four
years
without
a
single
love
affair
did
not
fit
her
with
a
keen
perception
of
her
own
feelings
, and
she
who
had
never
warmed
to
actual
love
was
unaware
that
she
was
warming
now
.
CHAPTER
XI
.
Martin
went
back
to
his
pearl-diving
article
, which
would
have
been
finished
sooner
if
it
had
not
been
broken
in
upon
so
frequently
by
his
attempts
to
write
poetry
. His
poems
were
love
poems
, inspired
by
Ruth
,
but
they
were
never
completed
. Not
in
a
day
could
he
learn
to
chant
in
noble
verse
. Rhyme
and
metre
and
structure
were
serious
enough
in
themselves
, but
there
was
, over
and
beyond
them
, an
intangible
and
evasive
something
that
he
caught
in
all
great
poetry
, but
which
he
could
not
catch
and
imprison
in
his
own
. It
was
the
elusive
spirit
of
poetry
itself
that
he
sensed
and
sought
after
but
could
not
capture
. It
seemed
a
glow
to
him
, a
warm
and
trailing
vapor
, ever
beyond
his
reaching
, though
sometimes
he
was
rewarded
by
catching
at
shreds
of
it
and
weaving
them
into
phrases
that
echoed
in
his
brain
with
haunting
notes
or
drifted
across
his
vision
in
misty
wafture
of
unseen
beauty
.
It
was
baffling
. He
ached
with
desire
to
express
and
could
but
gibber
prosaically
as
everybody
gibbered
. He
read
his
fragments
aloud
. The
metre
marched
along
on
perfect
feet
, and
the
rhyme
pounded
a
longer
and
equally
faultless
rhythm
, but
the
glow
and
high
exaltation
that
he
felt
within
were
lacking
. He
could
not
understand
, and
time
and
again
, in
despair
, defeated
and
depressed
, he
returned
to
his
article
. Prose
was
certainly
an
easier
medium
.
Following
the
“Pearl-diving
,”
he
wrote
an
article
on
the
sea
as
a
career
, another
on
turtle-catching
, and
a
third
on
the
northeast
trades
. Then
he
tried
, as
an
experiment
, a
short
story
, and
before
he
broke
his
stride
he
had
finished
six
short
stories
and
despatched
them
to
various
magazines
. He
wrote
prolifically
, intensely
, from
morning
till
night
, and
late
at
night
, except
when
he
broke
off
to
go
to
the
reading-room
, draw
books
from
the
library
, or
to
call
on
Ruth
. He
was
profoundly
happy
. Life
was
pitched
high
. He
was
in
a
fever
that
never
broke
. The
joy
of
creation
that
is
supposed
to
belong
to
the
gods
was
his
. All
the
life
about
him—the
odors
of
stale
vegetables
and
soapsuds
,
the
slatternly
form
of
his
sister
, and
the
jeering
face
of
Mr
.
Higginbotham—was
a
dream
. The
real
world
was
in
his
mind
, and
the
stories
he
wrote
were
so
many
pieces
of
reality
out
of
his
mind
.
The
days
were
too
short
. There
was
so
much
he
wanted
to
study
. He
cut
his
sleep
down
to
five
hours
and
found
that
he
could
get
along
upon
it
.
He
tried
four
hours
and
a
half
, and
regretfully
came
back
to
five
. He
could
joyfully
have
spent
all
his
waking
hours
upon
any
one
of
his
pursuits
. It
was
with
regret
that
he
ceased
from
writing
to
study
, that
he
ceased
from
study
to
go
to
the
library
, that
he
tore
himself
away
from
that
chart-room
of
knowledge
or
from
the
magazines
in
the
reading-room
that
were
filled
with
the
secrets
of
writers
who
succeeded
in
selling
their
wares
. It
was
like
severing
heart
strings
, when
he
was
with
Ruth
, to
stand
up
and
go
; and
he
scorched
through
the
dark
streets
so
as
to
get
home
to
his
books
at
the
least
possible
expense
of
time
.
And
hardest
of
all
was
it
to
shut
up
the
algebra
or
physics
, put
note-book
and
pencil
aside
, and
close
his
tired
eyes
in
sleep
. He
hated
the
thought
of
ceasing
to
live
, even
for
so
short
a
time
, and
his
sole
consolation
was
that
the
alarm
clock
was
set
five
hours
ahead
. He
would
lose
only
five
hours
anyway
, and
then
the
jangling
bell
would
jerk
him
out
of
unconsciousness
and
he
would
have
before
him
another
glorious
day
of
nineteen
hours
.
In
the
meantime
the
weeks
were
passing
, his
money
was
ebbing
low
, and
there
was
no
money
coming
in
. A
month
after
he
had
mailed
it
, the
adventure
serial
for
boys
was
returned
to
him
by
_The
Youth’s
Companion_
. The
rejection
slip
was
so
tactfully
worded
that
he
felt
kindly
toward
the
editor
. But
he
did
not
feel
so
kindly
toward
the
editor
of
the
_San
Francisco
Examiner_
. After
waiting
two
whole
weeks
,
Martin
had
written
to
him
. A
week
later
he
wrote
again
. At
the
end
of
the
month
, he
went
over
to
San
Francisco
and
personally
called
upon
the
editor
. But
he
did
not
meet
that
exalted
personage
, thanks
to
a
Cerberus
of
an
office
boy
, of
tender
years
and
red
hair
, who
guarded
the
portals
. At
the
end
of
the
fifth
week
the
manuscript
came
back
to
him
, by
mail
, without
comment
. There
was
no
rejection
slip
, no
explanation
, nothing
. In
the
same
way
his
other
articles
were
tied
up
with
the
other
leading
San
Francisco
papers
. When
he
recovered
them
, he
sent
them
to
the
magazines
in
the
East
, from
which
they
were
returned
more
promptly
, accompanied
always
by
the
printed
rejection
slips
.
The
short
stories
were
returned
in
similar
fashion
. He
read
them
over
and
over
, and
liked
them
so
much
that
he
could
not
puzzle
out
the
cause
of
their
rejection
, until
, one
day
, he
read
in
a
newspaper
that
manuscripts
should
always
be
typewritten
. That
explained
it
. Of
course
editors
were
so
busy
that
they
could
not
afford
the
time
and
strain
of
reading
handwriting
. Martin
rented
a
typewriter
and
spent
a
day
mastering
the
machine
. Each
day
he
typed
what
he
composed
, and
he
typed
his
earlier
manuscripts
as
fast
as
they
were
returned
him
. He
was
surprised
when
the
typed
ones
began
to
come
back
. His
jaw
seemed
to
become
squarer
, his
chin
more
aggressive
, and
he
bundled
the
manuscripts
off
to
new
editors
.
The
thought
came
to
him
that
he
was
not
a
good
judge
of
his
own
work
.
He
tried
it
out
on
Gertrude
. He
read
his
stories
aloud
to
her
. Her
eyes
glistened
, and
she
looked
at
him
proudly
as
she
said
:-
“Ain’t
it
grand
, you
writin’
those
sort
of
things
.”
“Yes
, yes
,”
he
demanded
impatiently
. “But
the
story—how
did
you
like
it
?”
“Just
grand
,”
was
the
reply
. “Just
grand
, an’
thrilling
, too
. I
was
all
worked
up
.”
He
could
see
that
her
mind
was
not
clear
. The
perplexity
was
strong
in
her
good-natured
face
. So
he
waited
.
“But
, say
, Mart
,”
after
a
long
pause
, “how
did
it
end
? Did
that
young
man
who
spoke
so
highfalutin’
get
her
?”
And
, after
he
had
explained
the
end
, which
he
thought
he
had
made
artistically
obvious
, she
would
say
:-
“That’s
what
I
wanted
to
know
. Why
didn’t
you
write
that
way
in
the
story
?”
One
thing
he
learned
, after
he
had
read
her
a
number
of
stories
,
namely
, that
she
liked
happy
endings
.
“That
story
was
perfectly
grand
,”
she
announced
, straightening
up
from
the
wash-tub
with
a
tired
sigh
and
wiping
the
sweat
from
her
forehead
with
a
red
, steamy
hand
; “but
it
makes
me
sad
. I
want
to
cry
. There
is
too
many
sad
things
in
the
world
anyway
. It
makes
me
happy
to
think
about
happy
things
. Now
if
he’d
married
her
, and—You
don’t
mind
, Mart
?”
she
queried
apprehensively
. “I
just
happen
to
feel
that
way
, because
I’m
tired
, I
guess
. But
the
story
was
grand
just
the
same
, perfectly
grand
. Where
are
you
goin’
to
sell
it
?”
“That’s
a
horse
of
another
color
,”
he
laughed
.
“But
if
you
_did_
sell
it
, what
do
you
think
you’d
get
for
it
?”
“Oh
, a
hundred
dollars
. That
would
be
the
least
, the
way
prices
go
.”
“My
! I
do
hope
you’ll
sell
it
!”
“Easy
money
, eh
?”
Then
he
added
proudly
: “I
wrote
it
in
two
days
.
That’s
fifty
dollars
a
day
.”
He
longed
to
read
his
stories
to
Ruth
, but
did
not
dare
. He
would
wait
till
some
were
published
, he
decided
, then
she
would
understand
what
he
had
been
working
for
. In
the
meantime
he
toiled
on
. Never
had
the
spirit
of
adventure
lured
him
more
strongly
than
on
this
amazing
exploration
of
the
realm
of
mind
. He
bought
the
text-books
on
physics
and
chemistry
, and
, along
with
his
algebra
, worked
out
problems
and
demonstrations
. He
took
the
laboratory
proofs
on
faith
, and
his
intense
power
of
vision
enabled
him
to
see
the
reactions
of
chemicals
more
understandingly
than
the
average
student
saw
them
in
the
laboratory
.
Martin
wandered
on
through
the
heavy
pages
, overwhelmed
by
the
clews
he
was
getting
to
the
nature
of
things
. He
had
accepted
the
world
as
the
world
, but
now
he
was
comprehending
the
organization
of
it
, the
play
and
interplay
of
force
and
matter
. Spontaneous
explanations
of
old
matters
were
continually
arising
in
his
mind
. Levers
and
purchases
fascinated
him
, and
his
mind
roved
backward
to
hand-spikes
and
blocks
and
tackles
at
sea
. The
theory
of
navigation
, which
enabled
the
ships
to
travel
unerringly
their
courses
over
the
pathless
ocean
, was
made
clear
to
him
. The
mysteries
of
storm
, and
rain
, and
tide
were
revealed
,
and
the
reason
for
the
existence
of
trade-winds
made
him
wonder
whether
he
had
written
his
article
on
the
northeast
trade
too
soon
. At
any
rate
he
knew
he
could
write
it
better
now
. One
afternoon
he
went
out
with
Arthur
to
the
University
of
California
, and
, with
bated
breath
and
a
feeling
of
religious
awe
, went
through
the
laboratories
, saw
demonstrations
, and
listened
to
a
physics
professor
lecturing
to
his
classes
.
But
he
did
not
neglect
his
writing
. A
stream
of
short
stories
flowed
from
his
pen
, and
he
branched
out
into
the
easier
forms
of
verse—the
kind
he
saw
printed
in
the
magazines—though
he
lost
his
head
and
wasted
two
weeks
on
a
tragedy
in
blank
verse
, the
swift
rejection
of
which
, by
half
a
dozen
magazines
, dumfounded
him
. Then
he
discovered
Henley
and
wrote
a
series
of
sea-poems
on
the
model
of
“Hospital
Sketches
.”
They
were
simple
poems
, of
light
and
color
, and
romance
and
adventure
. “Sea
Lyrics
,”
he
called
them
, and
he
judged
them
to
be
the
best
work
he
had
yet
done
. There
were
thirty
, and
he
completed
them
in
a
month
, doing
one
a
day
after
having
done
his
regular
day’s
work
on
fiction
, which
day’s
work
was
the
equivalent
to
a
week’s
work
of
the
average
successful
writer
. The
toil
meant
nothing
to
him
. It
was
not
toil
. He
was
finding
speech
, and
all
the
beauty
and
wonder
that
had
been
pent
for
years
behind
his
inarticulate
lips
was
now
pouring
forth
in
a
wild
and
virile
flood
.
He
showed
the
“Sea
Lyrics”
to
no
one
, not
even
to
the
editors
. He
had
become
distrustful
of
editors
. But
it
was
not
distrust
that
prevented
him
from
submitting
the
“Lyrics
.”
They
were
so
beautiful
to
him
that
he
was
impelled
to
save
them
to
share
with
Ruth
in
some
glorious
, far-off
time
when
he
would
dare
to
read
to
her
what
he
had
written
. Against
that
time
he
kept
them
with
him
, reading
them
aloud
, going
over
them
until
he
knew
them
by
heart
.
He
lived
every
moment
of
his
waking
hours
, and
he
lived
in
his
sleep
,
his
subjective
mind
rioting
through
his
five
hours
of
surcease
and
combining
the
thoughts
and
events
of
the
day
into
grotesque
and
impossible
marvels
. In
reality
, he
never
rested
, and
a
weaker
body
or
a
less
firmly
poised
brain
would
have
been
prostrated
in
a
general
break-down
. His
late
afternoon
calls
on
Ruth
were
rarer
now
, for
June
was
approaching
, when
she
would
take
her
degree
and
finish
with
the
university
. Bachelor
of
Arts
!—when
he
thought
of
her
degree
, it
seemed
she
fled
beyond
him
faster
than
he
could
pursue
.
One
afternoon
a
week
she
gave
to
him
, and
arriving
late
, he
usually
stayed
for
dinner
and
for
music
afterward
. Those
were
his
red-letter
days
. The
atmosphere
of
the
house
, in
such
contrast
with
that
in
which
he
lived
, and
the
mere
nearness
to
her
, sent
him
forth
each
time
with
a
firmer
grip
on
his
resolve
to
climb
the
heights
. In
spite
of
the
beauty
in
him
, and
the
aching
desire
to
create
, it
was
for
her
that
he
struggled
. He
was
a
lover
first
and
always
. All
other
things
he
subordinated
to
love
.
Greater
than
his
adventure
in
the
world
of
thought
was
his
love-adventure
. The
world
itself
was
not
so
amazing
because
of
the
atoms
and
molecules
that
composed
it
according
to
the
propulsions
of
irresistible
force
; what
made
it
amazing
was
the
fact
that
Ruth
lived
in
it
. She
was
the
most
amazing
thing
he
had
ever
known
, or
dreamed
, or
guessed
.
But
he
was
oppressed
always
by
her
remoteness
. She
was
so
far
from
him
,
and
he
did
not
know
how
to
approach
her
. He
had
been
a
success
with
girls
and
women
in
his
own
class
; but
he
had
never
loved
any
of
them
,
while
he
did
love
her
, and
besides
, she
was
not
merely
of
another
class
. His
very
love
elevated
her
above
all
classes
. She
was
a
being
apart
, so
far
apart
that
he
did
not
know
how
to
draw
near
to
her
as
a
lover
should
draw
near
. It
was
true
, as
he
acquired
knowledge
and
language
, that
he
was
drawing
nearer
, talking
her
speech
, discovering
ideas
and
delights
in
common
; but
this
did
not
satisfy
his
lover’s
yearning
. His
lover’s
imagination
had
made
her
holy
, too
holy
, too
spiritualized
, to
have
any
kinship
with
him
in
the
flesh
. It
was
his
own
love
that
thrust
her
from
him
and
made
her
seem
impossible
for
him
.
Love
itself
denied
him
the
one
thing
that
it
desired
.
And
then
, one
day
, without
warning
, the
gulf
between
them
was
bridged
for
a
moment
, and
thereafter
, though
the
gulf
remained
, it
was
ever
narrower
. They
had
been
eating
cherries—great
, luscious
, black
cherries
with
a
juice
of
the
color
of
dark
wine
. And
later
, as
she
read
aloud
to
him
from
“The
Princess
,”
he
chanced
to
notice
the
stain
of
the
cherries
on
her
lips
. For
the
moment
her
divinity
was
shattered
. She
was
clay
,
after
all
, mere
clay
, subject
to
the
common
law
of
clay
as
his
clay
was
subject
, or
anybody’s
clay
. Her
lips
were
flesh
like
his
, and
cherries
dyed
them
as
cherries
dyed
his
. And
if
so
with
her
lips
, then
was
it
so
with
all
of
her
. She
was
woman
, all
woman
, just
like
any
woman
. It
came
upon
him
abruptly
. It
was
a
revelation
that
stunned
him
. It
was
as
if
he
had
seen
the
sun
fall
out
of
the
sky
, or
had
seen
worshipped
purity
polluted
.
Then
he
realized
the
significance
of
it
, and
his
heart
began
pounding
and
challenging
him
to
play
the
lover
with
this
woman
who
was
not
a
spirit
from
other
worlds
but
a
mere
woman
with
lips
a
cherry
could
stain
. He
trembled
at
the
audacity
of
his
thought
; but
all
his
soul
was
singing
, and
reason
, in
a
triumphant
paean
, assured
him
he
was
right
.
Something
of
this
change
in
him
must
have
reached
her
, for
she
paused
from
her
reading
, looked
up
at
him
, and
smiled
. His
eyes
dropped
from
her
blue
eyes
to
her
lips
, and
the
sight
of
the
stain
maddened
him
. His
arms
all
but
flashed
out
to
her
and
around
her
, in
the
way
of
his
old
careless
life
. She
seemed
to
lean
toward
him
, to
wait
, and
all
his
will
fought
to
hold
him
back
.
“You
were
not
following
a
word
,”
she
pouted
.
Then
she
laughed
at
him
, delighting
in
his
confusion
, and
as
he
looked
into
her
frank
eyes
and
knew
that
she
had
divined
nothing
of
what
he
felt
, he
became
abashed
. He
had
indeed
in
thought
dared
too
far
. Of
all
the
women
he
had
known
there
was
no
woman
who
would
not
have
guessed—save
her
. And
she
had
not
guessed
. There
was
the
difference
.
She
was
different
. He
was
appalled
by
his
own
grossness
, awed
by
her
clear
innocence
, and
he
gazed
again
at
her
across
the
gulf
. The
bridge
had
broken
down
.
But
still
the
incident
had
brought
him
nearer
. The
memory
of
it
persisted
, and
in
the
moments
when
he
was
most
cast
down
, he
dwelt
upon
it
eagerly
. The
gulf
was
never
again
so
wide
. He
had
accomplished
a
distance
vastly
greater
than
a
bachelorship
of
arts
, or
a
dozen
bachelorships
. She
was
pure
, it
was
true
, as
he
had
never
dreamed
of
purity
; but
cherries
stained
her
lips
. She
was
subject
to
the
laws
of
the
universe
just
as
inexorably
as
he
was
. She
had
to
eat
to
live
, and
when
she
got
her
feet
wet
, she
caught
cold
. But
that
was
not
the
point
.
If
she
could
feel
hunger
and
thirst
, and
heat
and
cold
, then
could
she
feel
love—and
love
for
a
man
. Well
, he
was
a
man
. And
why
could
he
not
be
the
man
? “It’s
up
to
me
to
make
good
,”
he
would
murmur
fervently
. “I
will
be
_the_
man
. I
will
make
myself
_the_
man
. I
will
make
good
.”
CHAPTER
XII
.
Early
one
evening
, struggling
with
a
sonnet
that
twisted
all
awry
the
beauty
and
thought
that
trailed
in
glow
and
vapor
through
his
brain
,
Martin
was
called
to
the
telephone
.
“It’s
a
lady’s
voice
, a
fine
lady’s
,”
Mr
. Higginbotham
, who
had
called
him
, jeered
.
Martin
went
to
the
telephone
in
the
corner
of
the
room
, and
felt
a
wave
of
warmth
rush
through
him
as
he
heard
Ruth’s
voice
. In
his
battle
with
the
sonnet
he
had
forgotten
her
existence
, and
at
the
sound
of
her
voice
his
love
for
her
smote
him
like
a
sudden
blow
. And
such
a
voice
!—delicate
and
sweet
, like
a
strain
of
music
heard
far
off
and
faint
, or
, better
, like
a
bell
of
silver
, a
perfect
tone
, crystal-pure
.
No
mere
woman
had
a
voice
like
that
. There
was
something
celestial
about
it
, and
it
came
from
other
worlds
. He
could
scarcely
hear
what
it
said
, so
ravished
was
he
, though
he
controlled
his
face
, for
he
knew
that
Mr
. Higginbotham’s
ferret
eyes
were
fixed
upon
him
.
It
was
not
much
that
Ruth
wanted
to
say—merely
that
Norman
had
been
going
to
take
her
to
a
lecture
that
night
, but
that
he
had
a
headache
,
and
she
was
so
disappointed
, and
she
had
the
tickets
, and
that
if
he
had
no
other
engagement
, would
he
be
good
enough
to
take
her
?
Would
he
! He
fought
to
suppress
the
eagerness
in
his
voice
. It
was
amazing
. He
had
always
seen
her
in
her
own
house
. And
he
had
never
dared
to
ask
her
to
go
anywhere
with
him
. Quite
irrelevantly
, still
at
the
telephone
and
talking
with
her
, he
felt
an
overpowering
desire
to
die
for
her
, and
visions
of
heroic
sacrifice
shaped
and
dissolved
in
his
whirling
brain
. He
loved
her
so
much
, so
terribly
, so
hopelessly
.
In
that
moment
of
mad
happiness
that
she
should
go
out
with
him
, go
to
a
lecture
with
him—with
him
, Martin
Eden—she
soared
so
far
above
him
that
there
seemed
nothing
else
for
him
to
do
than
die
for
her
. It
was
the
only
fit
way
in
which
he
could
express
the
tremendous
and
lofty
emotion
he
felt
for
her
. It
was
the
sublime
abnegation
of
true
love
that
comes
to
all
lovers
, and
it
came
to
him
there
, at
the
telephone
,
in
a
whirlwind
of
fire
and
glory
; and
to
die
for
her
, he
felt
, was
to
have
lived
and
loved
well
. And
he
was
only
twenty-one
, and
he
had
never
been
in
love
before
.
His
hand
trembled
as
he
hung
up
the
receiver
, and
he
was
weak
from
the
organ
which
had
stirred
him
. His
eyes
were
shining
like
an
angel’s
, and
his
face
was
transfigured
, purged
of
all
earthly
dross
, and
pure
and
holy
.
“Makin’
dates
outside
, eh
?”
his
brother-in-law
sneered
. “You
know
what
that
means
. You’ll
be
in
the
police
court
yet
.”
But
Martin
could
not
come
down
from
the
height
. Not
even
the
bestiality
of
the
allusion
could
bring
him
back
to
earth
. Anger
and
hurt
were
beneath
him
. He
had
seen
a
great
vision
and
was
as
a
god
, and
he
could
feel
only
profound
and
awful
pity
for
this
maggot
of
a
man
. He
did
not
look
at
him
, and
though
his
eyes
passed
over
him
, he
did
not
see
him
;
and
as
in
a
dream
he
passed
out
of
the
room
to
dress
. It
was
not
until
he
had
reached
his
own
room
and
was
tying
his
necktie
that
he
became
aware
of
a
sound
that
lingered
unpleasantly
in
his
ears
. On
investigating
this
sound
he
identified
it
as
the
final
snort
of
Bernard
Higginbotham
, which
somehow
had
not
penetrated
to
his
brain
before
.
As
Ruth’s
front
door
closed
behind
them
and
he
came
down
the
steps
with
her
, he
found
himself
greatly
perturbed
. It
was
not
unalloyed
bliss
,
taking
her
to
the
lecture
. He
did
not
know
what
he
ought
to
do
. He
had
seen
, on
the
streets
, with
persons
of
her
class
, that
the
women
took
the
men’s
arms
. But
then
, again
, he
had
seen
them
when
they
didn’t
; and
he
wondered
if
it
was
only
in
the
evening
that
arms
were
taken
, or
only
between
husbands
and
wives
and
relatives
.
Just
before
he
reached
the
sidewalk
, he
remembered
Minnie
. Minnie
had
always
been
a
stickler
. She
had
called
him
down
the
second
time
she
walked
out
with
him
, because
he
had
gone
along
on
the
inside
, and
she
had
laid
the
law
down
to
him
that
a
gentleman
always
walked
on
the
outside—when
he
was
with
a
lady
. And
Minnie
had
made
a
practice
of
kicking
his
heels
, whenever
they
crossed
from
one
side
of
the
street
to
the
other
, to
remind
him
to
get
over
on
the
outside
. He
wondered
where
she
had
got
that
item
of
etiquette
, and
whether
it
had
filtered
down
from
above
and
was
all
right
.
It
wouldn’t
do
any
harm
to
try
it
, he
decided
, by
the
time
they
had
reached
the
sidewalk
; and
he
swung
behind
Ruth
and
took
up
his
station
on
the
outside
. Then
the
other
problem
presented
itself
. Should
he
offer
her
his
arm
? He
had
never
offered
anybody
his
arm
in
his
life
.
The
girls
he
had
known
never
took
the
fellows’
arms
. For
the
first
several
times
they
walked
freely
, side
by
side
, and
after
that
it
was
arms
around
the
waists
, and
heads
against
the
fellows’
shoulders
where
the
streets
were
unlighted
. But
this
was
different
. She
wasn’t
that
kind
of
a
girl
. He
must
do
something
.
He
crooked
the
arm
next
to
her—crooked
it
very
slightly
and
with
secret
tentativeness
, not
invitingly
, but
just
casually
, as
though
he
was
accustomed
to
walk
that
way
. And
then
the
wonderful
thing
happened
. He
felt
her
hand
upon
his
arm
. Delicious
thrills
ran
through
him
at
the
contact
, and
for
a
few
sweet
moments
it
seemed
that
he
had
left
the
solid
earth
and
was
flying
with
her
through
the
air
. But
he
was
soon
back
again
, perturbed
by
a
new
complication
. They
were
crossing
the
street
. This
would
put
him
on
the
inside
. He
should
be
on
the
outside
.
Should
he
therefore
drop
her
arm
and
change
over
? And
if
he
did
so
,
would
he
have
to
repeat
the
manoeuvre
the
next
time
? And
the
next
?
There
was
something
wrong
about
it
, and
he
resolved
not
to
caper
about
and
play
the
fool
. Yet
he
was
not
satisfied
with
his
conclusion
, and
when
he
found
himself
on
the
inside
, he
talked
quickly
and
earnestly
,
making
a
show
of
being
carried
away
by
what
he
was
saying
, so
that
, in
case
he
was
wrong
in
not
changing
sides
, his
enthusiasm
would
seem
the
cause
for
his
carelessness
.
As
they
crossed
Broadway
, he
came
face
to
face
with
a
new
problem
. In
the
blaze
of
the
electric
lights
, he
saw
Lizzie
Connolly
and
her
giggly
friend
. Only
for
an
instant
he
hesitated
, then
his
hand
went
up
and
his
hat
came
off
. He
could
not
be
disloyal
to
his
kind
, and
it
was
to
more
than
Lizzie
Connolly
that
his
hat
was
lifted
. She
nodded
and
looked
at
him
boldly
, not
with
soft
and
gentle
eyes
like
Ruth’s
, but
with
eyes
that
were
handsome
and
hard
, and
that
swept
on
past
him
to
Ruth
and
itemized
her
face
and
dress
and
station
. And
he
was
aware
that
Ruth
looked
, too
, with
quick
eyes
that
were
timid
and
mild
as
a
dove’s
, but
which
saw
, in
a
look
that
was
a
flutter
on
and
past
, the
working-class
girl
in
her
cheap
finery
and
under
the
strange
hat
that
all
working-class
girls
were
wearing
just
then
.
“What
a
pretty
girl
!”
Ruth
said
a
moment
later
.
Martin
could
have
blessed
her
, though
he
said
:-
“I
don’t
know
. I
guess
it’s
all
a
matter
of
personal
taste
, but
she
doesn’t
strike
me
as
being
particularly
pretty
.”
“Why
, there
isn’t
one
woman
in
ten
thousand
with
features
as
regular
as
hers
. They
are
splendid
. Her
face
is
as
clear-cut
as
a
cameo
. And
her
eyes
are
beautiful
.”
“Do
you
think
so
?”
Martin
queried
absently
, for
to
him
there
was
only
one
beautiful
woman
in
the
world
, and
she
was
beside
him
, her
hand
upon
his
arm
.
“Do
I
think
so
? If
that
girl
had
proper
opportunity
to
dress
, Mr
. Eden
,
and
if
she
were
taught
how
to
carry
herself
, you
would
be
fairly
dazzled
by
her
, and
so
would
all
men
.”
“She
would
have
to
be
taught
how
to
speak
,”
he
commented
, “or
else
most
of
the
men
wouldn’t
understand
her
. I’m
sure
you
couldn’t
understand
a
quarter
of
what
she
said
if
she
just
spoke
naturally
.”
“Nonsense
! You
are
as
bad
as
Arthur
when
you
try
to
make
your
point
.”
“You
forget
how
I
talked
when
you
first
met
me
. I
have
learned
a
new
language
since
then
. Before
that
time
I
talked
as
that
girl
talks
. Now
I
can
manage
to
make
myself
understood
sufficiently
in
your
language
to
explain
that
you
do
not
know
that
other
girl’s
language
. And
do
you
know
why
she
carries
herself
the
way
she
does
? I
think
about
such
things
now
, though
I
never
used
to
think
about
them
, and
I
am
beginning
to
understand—much
.”
“But
why
does
she
?”
“She
has
worked
long
hours
for
years
at
machines
. When
one’s
body
is
young
, it
is
very
pliable
, and
hard
work
will
mould
it
like
putty
according
to
the
nature
of
the
work
. I
can
tell
at
a
glance
the
trades
of
many
workingmen
I
meet
on
the
street
. Look
at
me
. Why
am
I
rolling
all
about
the
shop
? Because
of
the
years
I
put
in
on
the
sea
. If
I’d
put
in
the
same
years
cow-punching
, with
my
body
young
and
pliable
, I
wouldn’t
be
rolling
now
, but
I’d
be
bow-legged
. And
so
with
that
girl
.
You
noticed
that
her
eyes
were
what
I
might
call
hard
. She
has
never
been
sheltered
. She
has
had
to
take
care
of
herself
, and
a
young
girl
can’t
take
care
of
herself
and
keep
her
eyes
soft
and
gentle
like—like
yours
, for
example
.”
“I
think
you
are
right
,”
Ruth
said
in
a
low
voice
. “And
it
is
too
bad
.
She
is
such
a
pretty
girl
.”
He
looked
at
her
and
saw
her
eyes
luminous
with
pity
. And
then
he
remembered
that
he
loved
her
and
was
lost
in
amazement
at
his
fortune
that
permitted
him
to
love
her
and
to
take
her
on
his
arm
to
a
lecture
.
Who
are
you
, Martin
Eden
? he
demanded
of
himself
in
the
looking-glass
,
that
night
when
he
got
back
to
his
room
. He
gazed
at
himself
long
and
curiously
. Who
are
you
? What
are
you
? Where
do
you
belong
? You
belong
by
rights
to
girls
like
Lizzie
Connolly
. You
belong
with
the
legions
of
toil
, with
all
that
is
low
, and
vulgar
, and
unbeautiful
. You
belong
with
the
oxen
and
the
drudges
, in
dirty
surroundings
among
smells
and
stenches
. There
are
the
stale
vegetables
now
. Those
potatoes
are
rotting
. Smell
them
, damn
you
, smell
them
. And
yet
you
dare
to
open
the
books
, to
listen
to
beautiful
music
, to
learn
to
love
beautiful
paintings
, to
speak
good
English
, to
think
thoughts
that
none
of
your
own
kind
thinks
, to
tear
yourself
away
from
the
oxen
and
the
Lizzie
Connollys
and
to
love
a
pale
spirit
of
a
woman
who
is
a
million
miles
beyond
you
and
who
lives
in
the
stars
! Who
are
you
? and
what
are
you
?
damn
you
! And
are
you
going
to
make
good
?
He
shook
his
fist
at
himself
in
the
glass
, and
sat
down
on
the
edge
of
the
bed
to
dream
for
a
space
with
wide
eyes
. Then
he
got
out
note-book
and
algebra
and
lost
himself
in
quadratic
equations
, while
the
hours
slipped
by
, and
the
stars
dimmed
, and
the
gray
of
dawn
flooded
against
his
window
.
CHAPTER
XIII
.
It
was
the
knot
of
wordy
socialists
and
working-class
philosophers
that
held
forth
in
the
City
Hall
Park
on
warm
afternoons
that
was
responsible
for
the
great
discovery
. Once
or
twice
in
the
month
, while
riding
through
the
park
on
his
way
to
the
library
, Martin
dismounted
from
his
wheel
and
listened
to
the
arguments
, and
each
time
he
tore
himself
away
reluctantly
. The
tone
of
discussion
was
much
lower
than
at
Mr
. Morse’s
table
. The
men
were
not
grave
and
dignified
. They
lost
their
tempers
easily
and
called
one
another
names
, while
oaths
and
obscene
allusions
were
frequent
on
their
lips
. Once
or
twice
he
had
seen
them
come
to
blows
. And
yet
, he
knew
not
why
, there
seemed
something
vital
about
the
stuff
of
these
men’s
thoughts
. Their
logomachy
was
far
more
stimulating
to
his
intellect
than
the
reserved
and
quiet
dogmatism
of
Mr
. Morse
. These
men
, who
slaughtered
English
,
gesticulated
like
lunatics
, and
fought
one
another’s
ideas
with
primitive
anger
, seemed
somehow
to
be
more
alive
than
Mr
. Morse
and
his
crony
, Mr
. Butler
.
Martin
had
heard
Herbert
Spencer
quoted
several
times
in
the
park
, but
one
afternoon
a
disciple
of
Spencer’s
appeared
, a
seedy
tramp
with
a
dirty
coat
buttoned
tightly
at
the
throat
to
conceal
the
absence
of
a
shirt
. Battle
royal
was
waged
, amid
the
smoking
of
many
cigarettes
and
the
expectoration
of
much
tobacco-juice
, wherein
the
tramp
successfully
held
his
own
, even
when
a
socialist
workman
sneered
, “There
is
no
god
but
the
Unknowable
, and
Herbert
Spencer
is
his
prophet
.”
Martin
was
puzzled
as
to
what
the
discussion
was
about
, but
when
he
rode
on
to
the
library
he
carried
with
him
a
new-born
interest
in
Herbert
Spencer
, and
because
of
the
frequency
with
which
the
tramp
had
mentioned
“First
Principles
,”
Martin
drew
out
that
volume
.
So
the
great
discovery
began
. Once
before
he
had
tried
Spencer
, and
choosing
the
“Principles
of
Psychology”
to
begin
with
, he
had
failed
as
abjectly
as
he
had
failed
with
Madam
Blavatsky
. There
had
been
no
understanding
the
book
, and
he
had
returned
it
unread
. But
this
night
,
after
algebra
and
physics
, and
an
attempt
at
a
sonnet
, he
got
into
bed
and
opened
“First
Principles
.”
Morning
found
him
still
reading
. It
was
impossible
for
him
to
sleep
. Nor
did
he
write
that
day
. He
lay
on
the
bed
till
his
body
grew
tired
, when
he
tried
the
hard
floor
, reading
on
his
back
, the
book
held
in
the
air
above
him
, or
changing
from
side
to
side
. He
slept
that
night
, and
did
his
writing
next
morning
, and
then
the
book
tempted
him
and
he
fell
, reading
all
afternoon
, oblivious
to
everything
and
oblivious
to
the
fact
that
that
was
the
afternoon
Ruth
gave
to
him
. His
first
consciousness
of
the
immediate
world
about
him
was
when
Bernard
Higginbotham
jerked
open
the
door
and
demanded
to
know
if
he
thought
they
were
running
a
restaurant
.
Martin
Eden
had
been
mastered
by
curiosity
all
his
days
. He
wanted
to
know
, and
it
was
this
desire
that
had
sent
him
adventuring
over
the
world
. But
he
was
now
learning
from
Spencer
that
he
never
had
known
,
and
that
he
never
could
have
known
had
he
continued
his
sailing
and
wandering
forever
. He
had
merely
skimmed
over
the
surface
of
things
,
observing
detached
phenomena
, accumulating
fragments
of
facts
, making
superficial
little
generalizations—and
all
and
everything
quite
unrelated
in
a
capricious
and
disorderly
world
of
whim
and
chance
. The
mechanism
of
the
flight
of
birds
he
had
watched
and
reasoned
about
with
understanding
; but
it
had
never
entered
his
head
to
try
to
explain
the
process
whereby
birds
, as
organic
flying
mechanisms
, had
been
developed
. He
had
never
dreamed
there
was
such
a
process
. That
birds
should
have
come
to
be
, was
unguessed
. They
always
had
been
. They
just
happened
.
And
as
it
was
with
birds
, so
had
it
been
with
everything
. His
ignorant
and
unprepared
attempts
at
philosophy
had
been
fruitless
. The
medieval
metaphysics
of
Kant
had
given
him
the
key
to
nothing
, and
had
served
the
sole
purpose
of
making
him
doubt
his
own
intellectual
powers
. In
similar
manner
his
attempt
to
study
evolution
had
been
confined
to
a
hopelessly
technical
volume
by
Romanes
. He
had
understood
nothing
, and
the
only
idea
he
had
gathered
was
that
evolution
was
a
dry-as-dust
theory
, of
a
lot
of
little
men
possessed
of
huge
and
unintelligible
vocabularies
. And
now
he
learned
that
evolution
was
no
mere
theory
but
an
accepted
process
of
development
; that
scientists
no
longer
disagreed
about
it
, their
only
differences
being
over
the
method
of
evolution
.
And
here
was
the
man
Spencer
, organizing
all
knowledge
for
him
,
reducing
everything
to
unity
, elaborating
ultimate
realities
, and
presenting
to
his
startled
gaze
a
universe
so
concrete
of
realization
that
it
was
like
the
model
of
a
ship
such
as
sailors
make
and
put
into
glass
bottles
. There
was
no
caprice
, no
chance
. All
was
law
. It
was
in
obedience
to
law
that
the
bird
flew
, and
it
was
in
obedience
to
the
same
law
that
fermenting
slime
had
writhed
and
squirmed
and
put
out
legs
and
wings
and
become
a
bird
.
Martin
had
ascended
from
pitch
to
pitch
of
intellectual
living
, and
here
he
was
at
a
higher
pitch
than
ever
. All
the
hidden
things
were
laying
their
secrets
bare
. He
was
drunken
with
comprehension
. At
night
,
asleep
, he
lived
with
the
gods
in
colossal
nightmare
; and
awake
, in
the
day
, he
went
around
like
a
somnambulist
, with
absent
stare
, gazing
upon
the
world
he
had
just
discovered
. At
table
he
failed
to
hear
the
conversation
about
petty
and
ignoble
things
, his
eager
mind
seeking
out
and
following
cause
and
effect
in
everything
before
him
. In
the
meat
on
the
platter
he
saw
the
shining
sun
and
traced
its
energy
back
through
all
its
transformations
to
its
source
a
hundred
million
miles
away
, or
traced
its
energy
ahead
to
the
moving
muscles
in
his
arms
that
enabled
him
to
cut
the
meat
, and
to
the
brain
wherewith
he
willed
the
muscles
to
move
to
cut
the
meat
, until
, with
inward
gaze
, he
saw
the
same
sun
shining
in
his
brain
. He
was
entranced
by
illumination
, and
did
not
hear
the
“Bughouse
,”
whispered
by
Jim
, nor
see
the
anxiety
on
his
sister’s
face
, nor
notice
the
rotary
motion
of
Bernard
Higginbotham’s
finger
, whereby
he
imparted
the
suggestion
of
wheels
revolving
in
his
brother-in-law’s
head
.
What
, in
a
way
, most
profoundly
impressed
Martin
, was
the
correlation
of
knowledge—of
all
knowledge
. He
had
been
curious
to
know
things
, and
whatever
he
acquired
he
had
filed
away
in
separate
memory
compartments
in
his
brain
. Thus
, on
the
subject
of
sailing
he
had
an
immense
store
.
On
the
subject
of
woman
he
had
a
fairly
large
store
. But
these
two
subjects
had
been
unrelated
. Between
the
two
memory
compartments
there
had
been
no
connection
. That
, in
the
fabric
of
knowledge
, there
should
be
any
connection
whatever
between
a
woman
with
hysterics
and
a
schooner
carrying
a
weather-helm
or
heaving
to
in
a
gale
, would
have
struck
him
as
ridiculous
and
impossible
. But
Herbert
Spencer
had
shown
him
not
only
that
it
was
not
ridiculous
, but
that
it
was
impossible
for
there
to
be
no
connection
. All
things
were
related
to
all
other
things
from
the
farthermost
star
in
the
wastes
of
space
to
the
myriads
of
atoms
in
the
grain
of
sand
under
one’s
foot
. This
new
concept
was
a
perpetual
amazement
to
Martin
, and
he
found
himself
engaged
continually
in
tracing
the
relationship
between
all
things
under
the
sun
and
on
the
other
side
of
the
sun
. He
drew
up
lists
of
the
most
incongruous
things
and
was
unhappy
until
he
succeeded
in
establishing
kinship
between
them
all—kinship
between
love
, poetry
, earthquake
, fire
, rattlesnakes
,
rainbows
, precious
gems
, monstrosities
, sunsets
, the
roaring
of
lions
,
illuminating
gas
, cannibalism
, beauty
, murder
, lovers
, fulcrums
, and
tobacco
. Thus
, he
unified
the
universe
and
held
it
up
and
looked
at
it
,
or
wandered
through
its
byways
and
alleys
and
jungles
, not
as
a
terrified
traveller
in
the
thick
of
mysteries
seeking
an
unknown
goal
,
but
observing
and
charting
and
becoming
familiar
with
all
there
was
to
know
. And
the
more
he
knew
, the
more
passionately
he
admired
the
universe
, and
life
, and
his
own
life
in
the
midst
of
it
all
.
“You
fool
!”
he
cried
at
his
image
in
the
looking-glass
. “You
wanted
to
write
, and
you
tried
to
write
, and
you
had
nothing
in
you
to
write
about
. What
did
you
have
in
you
?—some
childish
notions
, a
few
half-baked
sentiments
, a
lot
of
undigested
beauty
, a
great
black
mass
of
ignorance
, a
heart
filled
to
bursting
with
love
, and
an
ambition
as
big
as
your
love
and
as
futile
as
your
ignorance
. And
you
wanted
to
write
! Why
, you’re
just
on
the
edge
of
beginning
to
get
something
in
you
to
write
about
. You
wanted
to
create
beauty
, but
how
could
you
when
you
knew
nothing
about
the
nature
of
beauty
? You
wanted
to
write
about
life
when
you
knew
nothing
of
the
essential
characteristics
of
life
.
You
wanted
to
write
about
the
world
and
the
scheme
of
existence
when
the
world
was
a
Chinese
puzzle
to
you
and
all
that
you
could
have
written
would
have
been
about
what
you
did
not
know
of
the
scheme
of
existence
. But
cheer
up
, Martin
, my
boy
. You’ll
write
yet
. You
know
a
little
, a
very
little
, and
you’re
on
the
right
road
now
to
know
more
.
Some
day
, if
you’re
lucky
, you
may
come
pretty
close
to
knowing
all
that
may
be
known
. Then
you
will
write
.”
He
brought
his
great
discovery
to
Ruth
, sharing
with
her
all
his
joy
and
wonder
in
it
. But
she
did
not
seem
to
be
so
enthusiastic
over
it
.
She
tacitly
accepted
it
and
, in
a
way
, seemed
aware
of
it
from
her
own
studies
. It
did
not
stir
her
deeply
, as
it
did
him
, and
he
would
have
been
surprised
had
he
not
reasoned
it
out
that
it
was
not
new
and
fresh
to
her
as
it
was
to
him
. Arthur
and
Norman
, he
found
, believed
in
evolution
and
had
read
Spencer
, though
it
did
not
seem
to
have
made
any
vital
impression
upon
them
, while
the
young
fellow
with
the
glasses
and
the
mop
of
hair
, Will
Olney
, sneered
disagreeably
at
Spencer
and
repeated
the
epigram
, “There
is
no
god
but
the
Unknowable
, and
Herbert
Spencer
is
his
prophet
.”
But
Martin
forgave
him
the
sneer
, for
he
had
begun
to
discover
that
Olney
was
not
in
love
with
Ruth
. Later
, he
was
dumfounded
to
learn
from
various
little
happenings
not
only
that
Olney
did
not
care
for
Ruth
,
but
that
he
had
a
positive
dislike
for
her
. Martin
could
not
understand
this
. It
was
a
bit
of
phenomena
that
he
could
not
correlate
with
all
the
rest
of
the
phenomena
in
the
universe
. But
nevertheless
he
felt
sorry
for
the
young
fellow
because
of
the
great
lack
in
his
nature
that
prevented
him
from
a
proper
appreciation
of
Ruth’s
fineness
and
beauty
.
They
rode
out
into
the
hills
several
Sundays
on
their
wheels
, and
Martin
had
ample
opportunity
to
observe
the
armed
truce
that
existed
between
Ruth
and
Olney
. The
latter
chummed
with
Norman
, throwing
Arthur
and
Martin
into
company
with
Ruth
, for
which
Martin
was
duly
grateful
.
Those
Sundays
were
great
days
for
Martin
, greatest
because
he
was
with
Ruth
, and
great
, also
, because
they
were
putting
him
more
on
a
par
with
the
young
men
of
her
class
. In
spite
of
their
long
years
of
disciplined
education
, he
was
finding
himself
their
intellectual
equal
, and
the
hours
spent
with
them
in
conversation
was
so
much
practice
for
him
in
the
use
of
the
grammar
he
had
studied
so
hard
. He
had
abandoned
the
etiquette
books
, falling
back
upon
observation
to
show
him
the
right
things
to
do
. Except
when
carried
away
by
his
enthusiasm
, he
was
always
on
guard
, keenly
watchful
of
their
actions
and
learning
their
little
courtesies
and
refinements
of
conduct
.
The
fact
that
Spencer
was
very
little
read
was
for
some
time
a
source
of
surprise
to
Martin
. “Herbert
Spencer
,”
said
the
man
at
the
desk
in
the
library
, “oh
, yes
, a
great
mind
.”
But
the
man
did
not
seem
to
know
anything
of
the
content
of
that
great
mind
. One
evening
, at
dinner
,
when
Mr
. Butler
was
there
, Martin
turned
the
conversation
upon
Spencer
.
Mr
. Morse
bitterly
arraigned
the
English
philosopher’s
agnosticism
, but
confessed
that
he
had
not
read
“First
Principles”
; while
Mr
. Butler
stated
that
he
had
no
patience
with
Spencer
, had
never
read
a
line
of
him
, and
had
managed
to
get
along
quite
well
without
him
. Doubts
arose
in
Martin’s
mind
, and
had
he
been
less
strongly
individual
he
would
have
accepted
the
general
opinion
and
given
Herbert
Spencer
up
. As
it
was
, he
found
Spencer’s
explanation
of
things
convincing
; and
, as
he
phrased
it
to
himself
, to
give
up
Spencer
would
be
equivalent
to
a
navigator
throwing
the
compass
and
chronometer
overboard
. So
Martin
went
on
into
a
thorough
study
of
evolution
, mastering
more
and
more
the
subject
himself
, and
being
convinced
by
the
corroborative
testimony
of
a
thousand
independent
writers
. The
more
he
studied
, the
more
vistas
he
caught
of
fields
of
knowledge
yet
unexplored
, and
the
regret
that
days
were
only
twenty-four
hours
long
became
a
chronic
complaint
with
him
.
One
day
, because
the
days
were
so
short
, he
decided
to
give
up
algebra
and
geometry
. Trigonometry
he
had
not
even
attempted
. Then
he
cut
chemistry
from
his
study-list
, retaining
only
physics
.
“I
am
not
a
specialist
,”
he
said
, in
defence
, to
Ruth
. “Nor
am
I
going
to
try
to
be
a
specialist
. There
are
too
many
special
fields
for
any
one
man
, in
a
whole
lifetime
, to
master
a
tithe
of
them
. I
must
pursue
general
knowledge
. When
I
need
the
work
of
specialists
, I
shall
refer
to
their
books
.”
“But
that
is
not
like
having
the
knowledge
yourself
,”
she
protested
.
“But
it
is
unnecessary
to
have
it
. We
profit
from
the
work
of
the
specialists
. That’s
what
they
are
for
. When
I
came
in
, I
noticed
the
chimney-sweeps
at
work
. They’re
specialists
, and
when
they
get
done
,
you
will
enjoy
clean
chimneys
without
knowing
anything
about
the
construction
of
chimneys
.”
“That’s
far-fetched
, I
am
afraid
.”
She
looked
at
him
curiously
, and
he
felt
a
reproach
in
her
gaze
and
manner
. But
he
was
convinced
of
the
rightness
of
his
position
.
“All
thinkers
on
general
subjects
, the
greatest
minds
in
the
world
, in
fact
, rely
on
the
specialists
. Herbert
Spencer
did
that
. He
generalized
upon
the
findings
of
thousands
of
investigators
. He
would
have
had
to
live
a
thousand
lives
in
order
to
do
it
all
himself
. And
so
with
Darwin
. He
took
advantage
of
all
that
had
been
learned
by
the
florists
and
cattle-breeders
.”
“You’re
right
, Martin
,”
Olney
said
. “You
know
what
you’re
after
, and
Ruth
doesn’t
. She
doesn’t
know
what
she
is
after
for
herself
even
.”
“—Oh
, yes
,”
Olney
rushed
on
, heading
off
her
objection
, “I
know
you
call
it
general
culture
. But
it
doesn’t
matter
what
you
study
if
you
want
general
culture
. You
can
study
French
, or
you
can
study
German
, or
cut
them
both
out
and
study
Esperanto
, you’ll
get
the
culture
tone
just
the
same
. You
can
study
Greek
or
Latin
, too
, for
the
same
purpose
,
though
it
will
never
be
any
use
to
you
. It
will
be
culture
, though
.
Why
, Ruth
studied
Saxon
, became
clever
in
it
,—that
was
two
years
ago
,—and
all
that
she
remembers
of
it
now
is
‘Whan
that
sweet
Aprile
with
his
schowers
soote’—isn’t
that
the
way
it
goes
?”
“But
it’s
given
you
the
culture
tone
just
the
same
,”
he
laughed
, again
heading
her
off
. “I
know
. We
were
in
the
same
classes
.”
“But
you
speak
of
culture
as
if
it
should
be
a
means
to
something
,”
Ruth
cried
out
. Her
eyes
were
flashing
, and
in
her
cheeks
were
two
spots
of
color
. “Culture
is
the
end
in
itself
.”
“But
that
is
not
what
Martin
wants
.”
“How
do
you
know
?”
“What
do
you
want
, Martin
?”
Olney
demanded
, turning
squarely
upon
him
.
Martin
felt
very
uncomfortable
, and
looked
entreaty
at
Ruth
.
“Yes
, what
do
you
want
?”
Ruth
asked
. “That
will
settle
it
.”
“Yes
, of
course
, I
want
culture
,”
Martin
faltered
. “I
love
beauty
, and
culture
will
give
me
a
finer
and
keener
appreciation
of
beauty
.”
She
nodded
her
head
and
looked
triumph
.
“Rot
, and
you
know
it
,”
was
Olney’s
comment
. “Martin’s
after
career
,
not
culture
. It
just
happens
that
culture
, in
his
case
, is
incidental
to
career
. If
he
wanted
to
be
a
chemist
, culture
would
be
unnecessary
.
Martin
wants
to
write
, but
he’s
afraid
to
say
so
because
it
will
put
you
in
the
wrong
.”
“And
why
does
Martin
want
to
write
?”
he
went
on
. “Because
he
isn’t
rolling
in
wealth
. Why
do
you
fill
your
head
with
Saxon
and
general
culture
? Because
you
don’t
have
to
make
your
way
in
the
world
. Your
father
sees
to
that
. He
buys
your
clothes
for
you
, and
all
the
rest
.
What
rotten
good
is
our
education
, yours
and
mine
and
Arthur’s
and
Norman’s
? We’re
soaked
in
general
culture
, and
if
our
daddies
went
broke
to-day
, we’d
be
falling
down
to-morrow
on
teachers’
examinations
.
The
best
job
you
could
get
, Ruth
, would
be
a
country
school
or
music
teacher
in
a
girls’
boarding-school
.”
“And
pray
what
would
you
do
?”
she
asked
.
“Not
a
blessed
thing
. I
could
earn
a
dollar
and
a
half
a
day
, common
labor
, and
I
might
get
in
as
instructor
in
Hanley’s
cramming
joint—I
say
might
, mind
you
, and
I
might
be
chucked
out
at
the
end
of
the
week
for
sheer
inability
.”
Martin
followed
the
discussion
closely
, and
while
he
was
convinced
that
Olney
was
right
, he
resented
the
rather
cavalier
treatment
he
accorded
Ruth
. A
new
conception
of
love
formed
in
his
mind
as
he
listened
.
Reason
had
nothing
to
do
with
love
. It
mattered
not
whether
the
woman
he
loved
reasoned
correctly
or
incorrectly
. Love
was
above
reason
. If
it
just
happened
that
she
did
not
fully
appreciate
his
necessity
for
a
career
, that
did
not
make
her
a
bit
less
lovable
. She
was
all
lovable
,
and
what
she
thought
had
nothing
to
do
with
her
lovableness
.
“What’s
that
?”
he
replied
to
a
question
from
Olney
that
broke
in
upon
his
train
of
thought
.
“I
was
saying
that
I
hoped
you
wouldn’t
be
fool
enough
to
tackle
Latin
.”
“But
Latin
is
more
than
culture
,”
Ruth
broke
in
. “It
is
equipment
.”
“Well
, are
you
going
to
tackle
it
?”
Olney
persisted
.
Martin
was
sore
beset
. He
could
see
that
Ruth
was
hanging
eagerly
upon
his
answer
.
“I
am
afraid
I
won’t
have
time
,”
he
said
finally
. “I’d
like
to
, but
I
won’t
have
time
.”
“You
see
, Martin’s
not
seeking
culture
,”
Olney
exulted
. “He’s
trying
to
get
somewhere
, to
do
something
.”
“Oh
, but
it’s
mental
training
. It’s
mind
discipline
. It’s
what
makes
disciplined
minds
.”
Ruth
looked
expectantly
at
Martin
, as
if
waiting
for
him
to
change
his
judgment
. “You
know
, the
foot-ball
players
have
to
train
before
the
big
game
. And
that
is
what
Latin
does
for
the
thinker
. It
trains
.”
“Rot
and
bosh
! That’s
what
they
told
us
when
we
were
kids
. But
there
is
one
thing
they
didn’t
tell
us
then
. They
let
us
find
it
out
for
ourselves
afterwards
.”
Olney
paused
for
effect
, then
added
, “And
what
they
didn’t
tell
us
was
that
every
gentleman
should
have
studied
Latin
,
but
that
no
gentleman
should
know
Latin
.”
“Now
that’s
unfair
,”
Ruth
cried
. “I
knew
you
were
turning
the
conversation
just
in
order
to
get
off
something
.”
“It’s
clever
all
right
,”
was
the
retort
, “but
it’s
fair
, too
. The
only
men
who
know
their
Latin
are
the
apothecaries
, the
lawyers
, and
the
Latin
professors
. And
if
Martin
wants
to
be
one
of
them
, I
miss
my
guess
. But
what’s
all
that
got
to
do
with
Herbert
Spencer
anyway
?
Martin’s
just
discovered
Spencer
, and
he’s
wild
over
him
. Why
? Because
Spencer
is
taking
him
somewhere
. Spencer
couldn’t
take
me
anywhere
, nor
you
. We
haven’t
got
anywhere
to
go
. You’ll
get
married
some
day
, and
I’ll
have
nothing
to
do
but
keep
track
of
the
lawyers
and
business
agents
who
will
take
care
of
the
money
my
father’s
going
to
leave
me
.”
Onley
got
up
to
go
, but
turned
at
the
door
and
delivered
a
parting
shot
.
“You
leave
Martin
alone
, Ruth
. He
knows
what’s
best
for
himself
. Look
at
what
he’s
done
already
. He
makes
me
sick
sometimes
, sick
and
ashamed
of
myself
. He
knows
more
now
about
the
world
, and
life
, and
man’s
place
, and
all
the
rest
, than
Arthur
, or
Norman
, or
I
, or
you
, too
, for
that
matter
, and
in
spite
of
all
our
Latin
, and
French
, and
Saxon
, and
culture
.”
“But
Ruth
is
my
teacher
,”
Martin
answered
chivalrously
. “She
is
responsible
for
what
little
I
have
learned
.”
“Rats
!”
Olney
looked
at
Ruth
, and
his
expression
was
malicious
. “I
suppose
you’ll
be
telling
me
next
that
you
read
Spencer
on
her
recommendation—only
you
didn’t
. And
she
doesn’t
know
anything
more
about
Darwin
and
evolution
than
I
do
about
King
Solomon’s
mines
. What’s
that
jawbreaker
definition
about
something
or
other
, of
Spencer’s
, that
you
sprang
on
us
the
other
day—that
indefinite
, incoherent
homogeneity
thing
? Spring
it
on
her
, and
see
if
she
understands
a
word
of
it
. That
isn’t
culture
, you
see
. Well
, tra
la
, and
if
you
tackle
Latin
, Martin
,
I
won’t
have
any
respect
for
you
.”
And
all
the
while
, interested
in
the
discussion
, Martin
had
been
aware
of
an
irk
in
it
as
well
. It
was
about
studies
and
lessons
, dealing
with
the
rudiments
of
knowledge
, and
the
schoolboyish
tone
of
it
conflicted
with
the
big
things
that
were
stirring
in
him—with
the
grip
upon
life
that
was
even
then
crooking
his
fingers
like
eagle’s
talons
, with
the
cosmic
thrills
that
made
him
ache
, and
with
the
inchoate
consciousness
of
mastery
of
it
all
. He
likened
himself
to
a
poet
, wrecked
on
the
shores
of
a
strange
land
, filled
with
power
of
beauty
, stumbling
and
stammering
and
vainly
trying
to
sing
in
the
rough
, barbaric
tongue
of
his
brethren
in
the
new
land
. And
so
with
him
. He
was
alive
, painfully
alive
, to
the
great
universal
things
, and
yet
he
was
compelled
to
potter
and
grope
among
schoolboy
topics
and
debate
whether
or
not
he
should
study
Latin
.
“What
in
hell
has
Latin
to
do
with
it
?”
he
demanded
before
his
mirror
that
night
. “I
wish
dead
people
would
stay
dead
. Why
should
I
and
the
beauty
in
me
be
ruled
by
the
dead
? Beauty
is
alive
and
everlasting
.
Languages
come
and
go
. They
are
the
dust
of
the
dead
.”
And
his
next
thought
was
that
he
had
been
phrasing
his
ideas
very
well
,
and
he
went
to
bed
wondering
why
he
could
not
talk
in
similar
fashion
when
he
was
with
Ruth
. He
was
only
a
schoolboy
, with
a
schoolboy’s
tongue
, when
he
was
in
her
presence
.
“Give
me
time
,”
he
said
aloud
. “Only
give
me
time
.”
Time
! Time
! Time
! was
his
unending
plaint
.
CHAPTER
XIV
.
It
was
not
because
of
Olney
, but
in
spite
of
Ruth
, and
his
love
for
Ruth
, that
he
finally
decided
not
to
take
up
Latin
. His
money
meant
time
. There
was
so
much
that
was
more
important
than
Latin
, so
many
studies
that
clamored
with
imperious
voices
. And
he
must
write
. He
must
earn
money
. He
had
had
no
acceptances
. Twoscore
of
manuscripts
were
travelling
the
endless
round
of
the
magazines
. How
did
the
others
do
it
? He
spent
long
hours
in
the
free
reading-room
, going
over
what
others
had
written
, studying
their
work
eagerly
and
critically
,
comparing
it
with
his
own
, and
wondering
, wondering
, about
the
secret
trick
they
had
discovered
which
enabled
them
to
sell
their
work
.
He
was
amazed
at
the
immense
amount
of
printed
stuff
that
was
dead
. No
light
, no
life
, no
color
, was
shot
through
it
. There
was
no
breath
of
life
in
it
, and
yet
it
sold
, at
two
cents
a
word
, twenty
dollars
a
thousand—the
newspaper
clipping
had
said
so
. He
was
puzzled
by
countless
short
stories
, written
lightly
and
cleverly
he
confessed
, but
without
vitality
or
reality
. Life
was
so
strange
and
wonderful
, filled
with
an
immensity
of
problems
, of
dreams
, and
of
heroic
toils
, and
yet
these
stories
dealt
only
with
the
commonplaces
of
life
. He
felt
the
stress
and
strain
of
life
, its
fevers
and
sweats
and
wild
insurgences—surely
this
was
the
stuff
to
write
about
! He
wanted
to
glorify
the
leaders
of
forlorn
hopes
, the
mad
lovers
, the
giants
that
fought
under
stress
and
strain
, amid
terror
and
tragedy
, making
life
crackle
with
the
strength
of
their
endeavor
. And
yet
the
magazine
short
stories
seemed
intent
on
glorifying
the
Mr
. Butlers
, the
sordid
dollar-chasers
, and
the
commonplace
little
love
affairs
of
commonplace
little
men
and
women
. Was
it
because
the
editors
of
the
magazines
were
commonplace
? he
demanded
. Or
were
they
afraid
of
life
, these
writers
and
editors
and
readers
?
But
his
chief
trouble
was
that
he
did
not
know
any
editors
or
writers
.
And
not
merely
did
he
not
know
any
writers
, but
he
did
not
know
anybody
who
had
ever
attempted
to
write
. There
was
nobody
to
tell
him
, to
hint
to
him
, to
give
him
the
least
word
of
advice
. He
began
to
doubt
that
editors
were
real
men
. They
seemed
cogs
in
a
machine
. That
was
what
it
was
, a
machine
. He
poured
his
soul
into
stories
, articles
, and
poems
,
and
intrusted
them
to
the
machine
. He
folded
them
just
so
, put
the
proper
stamps
inside
the
long
envelope
along
with
the
manuscript
,
sealed
the
envelope
, put
more
stamps
outside
, and
dropped
it
into
the
mail-box
. It
travelled
across
the
continent
, and
after
a
certain
lapse
of
time
the
postman
returned
him
the
manuscript
in
another
long
envelope
, on
the
outside
of
which
were
the
stamps
he
had
enclosed
.
There
was
no
human
editor
at
the
other
end
, but
a
mere
cunning
arrangement
of
cogs
that
changed
the
manuscript
from
one
envelope
to
another
and
stuck
on
the
stamps
. It
was
like
the
slot
machines
wherein
one
dropped
pennies
, and
, with
a
metallic
whirl
of
machinery
had
delivered
to
him
a
stick
of
chewing-gum
or
a
tablet
of
chocolate
. It
depended
upon
which
slot
one
dropped
the
penny
in
, whether
he
got
chocolate
or
gum
. And
so
with
the
editorial
machine
. One
slot
brought
checks
and
the
other
brought
rejection
slips
. So
far
he
had
found
only
the
latter
slot
.
It
was
the
rejection
slips
that
completed
the
horrible
machinelikeness
of
the
process
. These
slips
were
printed
in
stereotyped
forms
and
he
had
received
hundreds
of
them—as
many
as
a
dozen
or
more
on
each
of
his
earlier
manuscripts
. If
he
had
received
one
line
, one
personal
line
,
along
with
one
rejection
of
all
his
rejections
, he
would
have
been
cheered
. But
not
one
editor
had
given
that
proof
of
existence
. And
he
could
conclude
only
that
there
were
no
warm
human
men
at
the
other
end
,
only
mere
cogs
, well
oiled
and
running
beautifully
in
the
machine
.
He
was
a
good
fighter
, whole-souled
and
stubborn
, and
he
would
have
been
content
to
continue
feeding
the
machine
for
years
; but
he
was
bleeding
to
death
, and
not
years
but
weeks
would
determine
the
fight
.
Each
week
his
board
bill
brought
him
nearer
destruction
, while
the
postage
on
forty
manuscripts
bled
him
almost
as
severely
. He
no
longer
bought
books
, and
he
economized
in
petty
ways
and
sought
to
delay
the
inevitable
end
; though
he
did
not
know
how
to
economize
, and
brought
the
end
nearer
by
a
week
when
he
gave
his
sister
Marian
five
dollars
for
a
dress
.
He
struggled
in
the
dark
, without
advice
, without
encouragement
, and
in
the
teeth
of
discouragement
. Even
Gertrude
was
beginning
to
look
askance
. At
first
she
had
tolerated
with
sisterly
fondness
what
she
conceived
to
be
his
foolishness
; but
now
, out
of
sisterly
solicitude
,
she
grew
anxious
. To
her
it
seemed
that
his
foolishness
was
becoming
a
madness
. Martin
knew
this
and
suffered
more
keenly
from
it
than
from
the
open
and
nagging
contempt
of
Bernard
Higginbotham
. Martin
had
faith
in
himself
, but
he
was
alone
in
this
faith
. Not
even
Ruth
had
faith
.
She
had
wanted
him
to
devote
himself
to
study
, and
, though
she
had
not
openly
disapproved
of
his
writing
, she
had
never
approved
.
He
had
never
offered
to
show
her
his
work
. A
fastidious
delicacy
had
prevented
him
. Besides
, she
had
been
studying
heavily
at
the
university
, and
he
felt
averse
to
robbing
her
of
her
time
. But
when
she
had
taken
her
degree
, she
asked
him
herself
to
let
her
see
something
of
what
he
had
been
doing
. Martin
was
elated
and
diffident
. Here
was
a
judge
. She
was
a
bachelor
of
arts
. She
had
studied
literature
under
skilled
instructors
. Perhaps
the
editors
were
capable
judges
, too
. But
she
would
be
different
from
them
. She
would
not
hand
him
a
stereotyped
rejection
slip
, nor
would
she
inform
him
that
lack
of
preference
for
his
work
did
not
necessarily
imply
lack
of
merit
in
his
work
. She
would
talk
, a
warm
human
being
, in
her
quick
, bright
way
, and
, most
important
of
all
, she
would
catch
glimpses
of
the
real
Martin
Eden
. In
his
work
she
would
discern
what
his
heart
and
soul
were
like
, and
she
would
come
to
understand
something
, a
little
something
, of
the
stuff
of
his
dreams
and
the
strength
of
his
power
.
Martin
gathered
together
a
number
of
carbon
copies
of
his
short
stories
, hesitated
a
moment
, then
added
his
“Sea
Lyrics
.”
They
mounted
their
wheels
on
a
late
June
afternoon
and
rode
for
the
hills
. It
was
the
second
time
he
had
been
out
with
her
alone
, and
as
they
rode
along
through
the
balmy
warmth
, just
chilled
by
she
sea-breeze
to
refreshing
coolness
, he
was
profoundly
impressed
by
the
fact
that
it
was
a
very
beautiful
and
well-ordered
world
and
that
it
was
good
to
be
alive
and
to
love
. They
left
their
wheels
by
the
roadside
and
climbed
to
the
brown
top
of
an
open
knoll
where
the
sunburnt
grass
breathed
a
harvest
breath
of
dry
sweetness
and
content
.
“Its
work
is
done
,”
Martin
said
, as
they
seated
themselves
, she
upon
his
coat
, and
he
sprawling
close
to
the
warm
earth
. He
sniffed
the
sweetness
of
the
tawny
grass
, which
entered
his
brain
and
set
his
thoughts
whirling
on
from
the
particular
to
the
universal
. “It
has
achieved
its
reason
for
existence
,”
he
went
on
, patting
the
dry
grass
affectionately
. “It
quickened
with
ambition
under
the
dreary
downpour
of
last
winter
, fought
the
violent
early
spring
, flowered
, and
lured
the
insects
and
the
bees
, scattered
its
seeds
, squared
itself
with
its
duty
and
the
world
, and—”
“Why
do
you
always
look
at
things
with
such
dreadfully
practical
eyes
?”
she
interrupted
.
“Because
I’ve
been
studying
evolution
, I
guess
. It’s
only
recently
that
I
got
my
eyesight
, if
the
truth
were
told
.”
“But
it
seems
to
me
you
lose
sight
of
beauty
by
being
so
practical
,
that
you
destroy
beauty
like
the
boys
who
catch
butterflies
and
rub
the
down
off
their
beautiful
wings
.”
He
shook
his
head
.
“Beauty
has
significance
, but
I
never
knew
its
significance
before
. I
just
accepted
beauty
as
something
meaningless
, as
something
that
was
just
beautiful
without
rhyme
or
reason
. I
did
not
know
anything
about
beauty
. But
now
I
know
, or
, rather
, am
just
beginning
to
know
. This
grass
is
more
beautiful
to
me
now
that
I
know
why
it
is
grass
, and
all
the
hidden
chemistry
of
sun
and
rain
and
earth
that
makes
it
become
grass
. Why
, there
is
romance
in
the
life-history
of
any
grass
, yes
, and
adventure
, too
. The
very
thought
of
it
stirs
me
. When
I
think
of
the
play
of
force
and
matter
, and
all
the
tremendous
struggle
of
it
, I
feel
as
if
I
could
write
an
epic
on
the
grass
.
“How
well
you
talk
,”
she
said
absently
, and
he
noted
that
she
was
looking
at
him
in
a
searching
way
.
He
was
all
confusion
and
embarrassment
on
the
instant
, the
blood
flushing
red
on
his
neck
and
brow
.
“I
hope
I
am
learning
to
talk
,”
he
stammered
. “There
seems
to
be
so
much
in
me
I
want
to
say
. But
it
is
all
so
big
. I
can’t
find
ways
to
say
what
is
really
in
me
. Sometimes
it
seems
to
me
that
all
the
world
,
all
life
, everything
, had
taken
up
residence
inside
of
me
and
was
clamoring
for
me
to
be
the
spokesman
. I
feel—oh
, I
can’t
describe
it—I
feel
the
bigness
of
it
, but
when
I
speak
, I
babble
like
a
little
child
.
It
is
a
great
task
to
transmute
feeling
and
sensation
into
speech
,
written
or
spoken
, that
will
, in
turn
, in
him
who
reads
or
listens
,
transmute
itself
back
into
the
selfsame
feeling
and
sensation
. It
is
a
lordly
task
. See
, I
bury
my
face
in
the
grass
, and
the
breath
I
draw
in
through
my
nostrils
sets
me
quivering
with
a
thousand
thoughts
and
fancies
. It
is
a
breath
of
the
universe
I
have
breathed
. I
know
song
and
laughter
, and
success
and
pain
, and
struggle
and
death
; and
I
see
visions
that
arise
in
my
brain
somehow
out
of
the
scent
of
the
grass
,
and
I
would
like
to
tell
them
to
you
, to
the
world
. But
how
can
I
? My
tongue
is
tied
. I
have
tried
, by
the
spoken
word
, just
now
, to
describe
to
you
the
effect
on
me
of
the
scent
of
the
grass
. But
I
have
not
succeeded
. I
have
no
more
than
hinted
in
awkward
speech
. My
words
seem
gibberish
to
me
. And
yet
I
am
stifled
with
desire
to
tell
. Oh
!—”
he
threw
up
his
hands
with
a
despairing
gesture—“it
is
impossible
! It
is
not
understandable
! It
is
incommunicable
!”
“But
you
do
talk
well
,”
she
insisted
. “Just
think
how
you
have
improved
in
the
short
time
I
have
known
you
. Mr
. Butler
is
a
noted
public
speaker
. He
is
always
asked
by
the
State
Committee
to
go
out
on
stump
during
campaign
. Yet
you
talked
just
as
well
as
he
the
other
night
at
dinner
. Only
he
was
more
controlled
. You
get
too
excited
; but
you
will
get
over
that
with
practice
. Why
, you
would
make
a
good
public
speaker
.
You
can
go
far—if
you
want
to
. You
are
masterly
. You
can
lead
men
, I
am
sure
, and
there
is
no
reason
why
you
should
not
succeed
at
anything
you
set
your
hand
to
, just
as
you
have
succeeded
with
grammar
. You
would
make
a
good
lawyer
. You
should
shine
in
politics
. There
is
nothing
to
prevent
you
from
making
as
great
a
success
as
Mr
. Butler
has
made
. And
minus
the
dyspepsia
,”
she
added
with
a
smile
.
They
talked
on
; she
, in
her
gently
persistent
way
, returning
always
to
the
need
of
thorough
grounding
in
education
and
to
the
advantages
of
Latin
as
part
of
the
foundation
for
any
career
. She
drew
her
ideal
of
the
successful
man
, and
it
was
largely
in
her
father’s
image
, with
a
few
unmistakable
lines
and
touches
of
color
from
the
image
of
Mr
.
Butler
. He
listened
eagerly
, with
receptive
ears
, lying
on
his
back
and
looking
up
and
joying
in
each
movement
of
her
lips
as
she
talked
. But
his
brain
was
not
receptive
. There
was
nothing
alluring
in
the
pictures
she
drew
, and
he
was
aware
of
a
dull
pain
of
disappointment
and
of
a
sharper
ache
of
love
for
her
. In
all
she
said
there
was
no
mention
of
his
writing
, and
the
manuscripts
he
had
brought
to
read
lay
neglected
on
the
ground
.
At
last
, in
a
pause
, he
glanced
at
the
sun
, measured
its
height
above
the
horizon
, and
suggested
his
manuscripts
by
picking
them
up
.
“I
had
forgotten
,”
she
said
quickly
. “And
I
am
so
anxious
to
hear
.”
He
read
to
her
a
story
, one
that
he
flattered
himself
was
among
his
very
best
. He
called
it
“The
Wine
of
Life
,”
and
the
wine
of
it
, that
had
stolen
into
his
brain
when
he
wrote
it
, stole
into
his
brain
now
as
he
read
it
. There
was
a
certain
magic
in
the
original
conception
, and
he
had
adorned
it
with
more
magic
of
phrase
and
touch
. All
the
old
fire
and
passion
with
which
he
had
written
it
were
reborn
in
him
, and
he
was
swayed
and
swept
away
so
that
he
was
blind
and
deaf
to
the
faults
of
it
. But
it
was
not
so
with
Ruth
. Her
trained
ear
detected
the
weaknesses
and
exaggerations
, the
overemphasis
of
the
tyro
, and
she
was
instantly
aware
each
time
the
sentence-rhythm
tripped
and
faltered
. She
scarcely
noted
the
rhythm
otherwise
, except
when
it
became
too
pompous
,
at
which
moments
she
was
disagreeably
impressed
with
its
amateurishness
. That
was
her
final
judgment
on
the
story
as
a
whole—amateurish
, though
she
did
not
tell
him
so
. Instead
, when
he
had
done
, she
pointed
out
the
minor
flaws
and
said
that
she
liked
the
story
.
But
he
was
disappointed
. Her
criticism
was
just
. He
acknowledged
that
,
but
he
had
a
feeling
that
he
was
not
sharing
his
work
with
her
for
the
purpose
of
schoolroom
correction
. The
details
did
not
matter
. They
could
take
care
of
themselves
. He
could
mend
them
, he
could
learn
to
mend
them
. Out
of
life
he
had
captured
something
big
and
attempted
to
imprison
it
in
the
story
. It
was
the
big
thing
out
of
life
he
had
read
to
her
, not
sentence-structure
and
semicolons
. He
wanted
her
to
feel
with
him
this
big
thing
that
was
his
, that
he
had
seen
with
his
own
eyes
, grappled
with
his
own
brain
, and
placed
there
on
the
page
with
his
own
hands
in
printed
words
. Well
, he
had
failed
, was
his
secret
decision
. Perhaps
the
editors
were
right
. He
had
felt
the
big
thing
,
but
he
had
failed
to
transmute
it
. He
concealed
his
disappointment
, and
joined
so
easily
with
her
in
her
criticism
that
she
did
not
realize
that
deep
down
in
him
was
running
a
strong
undercurrent
of
disagreement
.
“This
next
thing
I’ve
called
‘The
Pot’
,”
he
said
, unfolding
the
manuscript
. “It
has
been
refused
by
four
or
five
magazines
now
, but
still
I
think
it
is
good
. In
fact
, I
don’t
know
what
to
think
of
it
,
except
that
I’ve
caught
something
there
. Maybe
it
won’t
affect
you
as
it
does
me
. It’s
a
short
thing—only
two
thousand
words
.”
“How
dreadful
!”
she
cried
, when
he
had
finished
. “It
is
horrible
,
unutterably
horrible
!”
He
noted
her
pale
face
, her
eyes
wide
and
tense
, and
her
clenched
hands
, with
secret
satisfaction
. He
had
succeeded
. He
had
communicated
the
stuff
of
fancy
and
feeling
from
out
of
his
brain
. It
had
struck
home
. No
matter
whether
she
liked
it
or
not
, it
had
gripped
her
and
mastered
her
, made
her
sit
there
and
listen
and
forget
details
.
“It
is
life
,”
he
said
, “and
life
is
not
always
beautiful
. And
yet
,
perhaps
because
I
am
strangely
made
, I
find
something
beautiful
there
.
It
seems
to
me
that
the
beauty
is
tenfold
enhanced
because
it
is
there—”
“But
why
couldn’t
the
poor
woman—”
she
broke
in
disconnectedly
. Then
she
left
the
revolt
of
her
thought
unexpressed
to
cry
out
: “Oh
! It
is
degrading
! It
is
not
nice
! It
is
nasty
!”
For
the
moment
it
seemed
to
him
that
his
heart
stood
still
. _Nasty_
! He
had
never
dreamed
it
. He
had
not
meant
it
. The
whole
sketch
stood
before
him
in
letters
of
fire
, and
in
such
blaze
of
illumination
he
sought
vainly
for
nastiness
. Then
his
heart
began
to
beat
again
. He
was
not
guilty
.
“Why
didn’t
you
select
a
nice
subject
?”
she
was
saying
. “We
know
there
are
nasty
things
in
the
world
, but
that
is
no
reason—”
She
talked
on
in
her
indignant
strain
, but
he
was
not
following
her
. He
was
smiling
to
himself
as
he
looked
up
into
her
virginal
face
, so
innocent
, so
penetratingly
innocent
, that
its
purity
seemed
always
to
enter
into
him
, driving
out
of
him
all
dross
and
bathing
him
in
some
ethereal
effulgence
that
was
as
cool
and
soft
and
velvety
as
starshine
.
_We
know
there
are
nasty
things
in
the
world_
! He
cuddled
to
him
the
notion
of
her
knowing
, and
chuckled
over
it
as
a
love
joke
. The
next
moment
, in
a
flashing
vision
of
multitudinous
detail
, he
sighted
the
whole
sea
of
life’s
nastiness
that
he
had
known
and
voyaged
over
and
through
, and
he
forgave
her
for
not
understanding
the
story
. It
was
through
no
fault
of
hers
that
she
could
not
understand
. He
thanked
God
that
she
had
been
born
and
sheltered
to
such
innocence
. But
he
knew
life
, its
foulness
as
well
as
its
fairness
, its
greatness
in
spite
of
the
slime
that
infested
it
, and
by
God
he
was
going
to
have
his
say
on
it
to
the
world
. Saints
in
heaven—how
could
they
be
anything
but
fair
and
pure
? No
praise
to
them
. But
saints
in
slime—ah
, that
was
the
everlasting
wonder
! That
was
what
made
life
worth
while
. To
see
moral
grandeur
rising
out
of
cesspools
of
iniquity
; to
rise
himself
and
first
glimpse
beauty
, faint
and
far
, through
mud-dripping
eyes
; to
see
out
of
weakness
, and
frailty
, and
viciousness
, and
all
abysmal
brutishness
,
arising
strength
, and
truth
, and
high
spiritual
endowment—
He
caught
a
stray
sequence
of
sentences
she
was
uttering
.
“The
tone
of
it
all
is
low
. And
there
is
so
much
that
is
high
. Take
‘In
Memoriam
.’”
He
was
impelled
to
suggest
“Locksley
Hall
,”
and
would
have
done
so
, had
not
his
vision
gripped
him
again
and
left
him
staring
at
her
, the
female
of
his
kind
, who
, out
of
the
primordial
ferment
, creeping
and
crawling
up
the
vast
ladder
of
life
for
a
thousand
thousand
centuries
,
had
emerged
on
the
topmost
rung
, having
become
one
Ruth
, pure
, and
fair
, and
divine
, and
with
power
to
make
him
know
love
, and
to
aspire
toward
purity
, and
to
desire
to
taste
divinity—him
, Martin
Eden
, who
,
too
, had
come
up
in
some
amazing
fashion
from
out
of
the
ruck
and
the
mire
and
the
countless
mistakes
and
abortions
of
unending
creation
.
There
was
the
romance
, and
the
wonder
, and
the
glory
. There
was
the
stuff
to
write
, if
he
could
only
find
speech
. Saints
in
heaven
!—They
were
only
saints
and
could
not
help
themselves
. But
he
was
a
man
.
“You
have
strength
,”
he
could
hear
her
saying
, “but
it
is
untutored
strength
.”
“Like
a
bull
in
a
china
shop
,”
he
suggested
, and
won
a
smile
.
“And
you
must
develop
discrimination
. You
must
consult
taste
, and
fineness
, and
tone
.”
“I
dare
too
much
,”
he
muttered
.
She
smiled
approbation
, and
settled
herself
to
listen
to
another
story
.
“I
don’t
know
what
you’ll
make
of
this
,”
he
said
apologetically
. “It’s
a
funny
thing
. I’m
afraid
I
got
beyond
my
depth
in
it
, but
my
intentions
were
good
. Don’t
bother
about
the
little
features
of
it
.
Just
see
if
you
catch
the
feel
of
the
big
thing
in
it
. It
is
big
, and
it
is
true
, though
the
chance
is
large
that
I
have
failed
to
make
it
intelligible
.”
He
read
, and
as
he
read
he
watched
her
. At
last
he
had
reached
her
, he
thought
. She
sat
without
movement
, her
eyes
steadfast
upon
him
,
scarcely
breathing
, caught
up
and
out
of
herself
, he
thought
, by
the
witchery
of
the
thing
he
had
created
. He
had
entitled
the
story
“Adventure
,”
and
it
was
the
apotheosis
of
adventure—not
of
the
adventure
of
the
storybooks
, but
of
real
adventure
, the
savage
taskmaster
, awful
of
punishment
and
awful
of
reward
, faithless
and
whimsical
, demanding
terrible
patience
and
heartbreaking
days
and
nights
of
toil
, offering
the
blazing
sunlight
glory
or
dark
death
at
the
end
of
thirst
and
famine
or
of
the
long
drag
and
monstrous
delirium
of
rotting
fever
, through
blood
and
sweat
and
stinging
insects
leading
up
by
long
chains
of
petty
and
ignoble
contacts
to
royal
culminations
and
lordly
achievements
.
It
was
this
, all
of
it
, and
more
, that
he
had
put
into
his
story
, and
it
was
this
, he
believed
, that
warmed
her
as
she
sat
and
listened
. Her
eyes
were
wide
, color
was
in
her
pale
cheeks
, and
before
he
finished
it
seemed
to
him
that
she
was
almost
panting
. Truly
, she
was
warmed
; but
she
was
warmed
, not
by
the
story
, but
by
him
. She
did
not
think
much
of
the
story
; it
was
Martin’s
intensity
of
power
, the
old
excess
of
strength
that
seemed
to
pour
from
his
body
and
on
and
over
her
. The
paradox
of
it
was
that
it
was
the
story
itself
that
was
freighted
with
his
power
, that
was
the
channel
, for
the
time
being
, through
which
his
strength
poured
out
to
her
. She
was
aware
only
of
the
strength
, and
not
of
the
medium
, and
when
she
seemed
most
carried
away
by
what
he
had
written
, in
reality
she
had
been
carried
away
by
something
quite
foreign
to
it—by
a
thought
, terrible
and
perilous
, that
had
formed
itself
unsummoned
in
her
brain
. She
had
caught
herself
wondering
what
marriage
was
like
, and
the
becoming
conscious
of
the
waywardness
and
ardor
of
the
thought
had
terrified
her
. It
was
unmaidenly
. It
was
not
like
her
. She
had
never
been
tormented
by
womanhood
, and
she
had
lived
in
a
dreamland
of
Tennysonian
poesy
, dense
even
to
the
full
significance
of
that
delicate
master’s
delicate
allusions
to
the
grossnesses
that
intrude
upon
the
relations
of
queens
and
knights
. She
had
been
asleep
, always
, and
now
life
was
thundering
imperatively
at
all
her
doors
. Mentally
she
was
in
a
panic
to
shoot
the
bolts
and
drop
the
bars
into
place
, while
wanton
instincts
urged
her
to
throw
wide
her
portals
and
bid
the
deliciously
strange
visitor
to
enter
in
.
Martin
waited
with
satisfaction
for
her
verdict
. He
had
no
doubt
of
what
it
would
be
, and
he
was
astounded
when
he
heard
her
say
:
“It
is
beautiful
.”
“It
is
beautiful
,”
she
repeated
, with
emphasis
, after
a
pause
.
Of
course
it
was
beautiful
; but
there
was
something
more
than
mere
beauty
in
it
, something
more
stingingly
splendid
which
had
made
beauty
its
handmaiden
. He
sprawled
silently
on
the
ground
, watching
the
grisly
form
of
a
great
doubt
rising
before
him
. He
had
failed
. He
was
inarticulate
. He
had
seen
one
of
the
greatest
things
in
the
world
, and
he
had
not
expressed
it
.
“What
did
you
think
of
the—”
He
hesitated
, abashed
at
his
first
attempt
to
use
a
strange
word
. “Of
the
_motif_
?”
he
asked
.
“It
was
confused
,”
she
answered
. “That
is
my
only
criticism
in
the
large
way
. I
followed
the
story
, but
there
seemed
so
much
else
. It
is
too
wordy
. You
clog
the
action
by
introducing
so
much
extraneous
material
.”
“That
was
the
major
_motif_
,”
he
hurriedly
explained
, “the
big
underrunning
_motif_
, the
cosmic
and
universal
thing
. I
tried
to
make
it
keep
time
with
the
story
itself
, which
was
only
superficial
after
all
. I
was
on
the
right
scent
, but
I
guess
I
did
it
badly
. I
did
not
succeed
in
suggesting
what
I
was
driving
at
. But
I’ll
learn
in
time
.”
She
did
not
follow
him
. She
was
a
bachelor
of
arts
, but
he
had
gone
beyond
her
limitations
. This
she
did
not
comprehend
, attributing
her
incomprehension
to
his
incoherence
.
“You
were
too
voluble
,”
she
said
. “But
it
was
beautiful
, in
places
.”
He
heard
her
voice
as
from
far
off
, for
he
was
debating
whether
he
would
read
her
the
“Sea
Lyrics
.”
He
lay
in
dull
despair
, while
she
watched
him
searchingly
, pondering
again
upon
unsummoned
and
wayward
thoughts
of
marriage
.
“You
want
to
be
famous
?”
she
asked
abruptly
.
“Yes
, a
little
bit
,”
he
confessed
. “That
is
part
of
the
adventure
. It
is
not
the
being
famous
, but
the
process
of
becoming
so
, that
counts
.
And
after
all
, to
be
famous
would
be
, for
me
, only
a
means
to
something
else
. I
want
to
be
famous
very
much
, for
that
matter
, and
for
that
reason
.”
“For
your
sake
,”
he
wanted
to
add
, and
might
have
added
had
she
proved
enthusiastic
over
what
he
had
read
to
her
.
But
she
was
too
busy
in
her
mind
, carving
out
a
career
for
him
that
would
at
least
be
possible
, to
ask
what
the
ultimate
something
was
which
he
had
hinted
at
. There
was
no
career
for
him
in
literature
. Of
that
she
was
convinced
. He
had
proved
it
to-day
, with
his
amateurish
and
sophomoric
productions
. He
could
talk
well
, but
he
was
incapable
of
expressing
himself
in
a
literary
way
. She
compared
Tennyson
, and
Browning
, and
her
favorite
prose
masters
with
him
, and
to
his
hopeless
discredit
. Yet
she
did
not
tell
him
her
whole
mind
. Her
strange
interest
in
him
led
her
to
temporize
. His
desire
to
write
was
, after
all
, a
little
weakness
which
he
would
grow
out
of
in
time
. Then
he
would
devote
himself
to
the
more
serious
affairs
of
life
. And
he
would
succeed
, too
. She
knew
that
. He
was
so
strong
that
he
could
not
fail—if
only
he
would
drop
writing
.
“I
wish
you
would
show
me
all
you
write
, Mr
. Eden
,”
she
said
.
He
flushed
with
pleasure
. She
was
interested
, that
much
was
sure
. And
at
least
she
had
not
given
him
a
rejection
slip
. She
had
called
certain
portions
of
his
work
beautiful
, and
that
was
the
first
encouragement
he
had
ever
received
from
any
one
.
“I
will
,”
he
said
passionately
. “And
I
promise
you
, Miss
Morse
, that
I
will
make
good
. I
have
come
far
, I
know
that
; and
I
have
far
to
go
, and
I
will
cover
it
if
I
have
to
do
it
on
my
hands
and
knees
.”
He
held
up
a
bunch
of
manuscript
. “Here
are
the
‘Sea
Lyrics
.’
When
you
get
home
,
I’ll
turn
them
over
to
you
to
read
at
your
leisure
. And
you
must
be
sure
to
tell
me
just
what
you
think
of
them
. What
I
need
, you
know
,
above
all
things
, is
criticism
. And
do
, please
, be
frank
with
me
.”
“I
will
be
perfectly
frank
,”
she
promised
, with
an
uneasy
conviction
that
she
had
not
been
frank
with
him
and
with
a
doubt
if
she
could
be
quite
frank
with
him
the
next
time
.
CHAPTER
XV
.
“The
first
battle
, fought
and
finished
,”
Martin
said
to
the
looking-glass
ten
days
later
. “But
there
will
be
a
second
battle
, and
a
third
battle
, and
battles
to
the
end
of
time
, unless—”
He
had
not
finished
the
sentence
, but
looked
about
the
mean
little
room
and
let
his
eyes
dwell
sadly
upon
a
heap
of
returned
manuscripts
, still
in
their
long
envelopes
, which
lay
in
a
corner
on
the
floor
. He
had
no
stamps
with
which
to
continue
them
on
their
travels
, and
for
a
week
they
had
been
piling
up
. More
of
them
would
come
in
on
the
morrow
, and
on
the
next
day
, and
the
next
, till
they
were
all
in
. And
he
would
be
unable
to
start
them
out
again
. He
was
a
month’s
rent
behind
on
the
typewriter
, which
he
could
not
pay
, having
barely
enough
for
the
week’s
board
which
was
due
and
for
the
employment
office
fees
.
He
sat
down
and
regarded
the
table
thoughtfully
. There
were
ink
stains
upon
it
, and
he
suddenly
discovered
that
he
was
fond
of
it
.
“Dear
old
table
,”
he
said
, “I’ve
spent
some
happy
hours
with
you
, and
you’ve
been
a
pretty
good
friend
when
all
is
said
and
done
. You
never
turned
me
down
, never
passed
me
out
a
reward-of-unmerit
rejection
slip
,
never
complained
about
working
overtime
.”
He
dropped
his
arms
upon
the
table
and
buried
his
face
in
them
. His
throat
was
aching
, and
he
wanted
to
cry
. It
reminded
him
of
his
first
fight
, when
he
was
six
years
old
, when
he
punched
away
with
the
tears
running
down
his
cheeks
while
the
other
boy
, two
years
his
elder
, had
beaten
and
pounded
him
into
exhaustion
. He
saw
the
ring
of
boys
,
howling
like
barbarians
as
he
went
down
at
last
, writhing
in
the
throes
of
nausea
, the
blood
streaming
from
his
nose
and
the
tears
from
his
bruised
eyes
.
“Poor
little
shaver
,”
he
murmured
. “And
you’re
just
as
badly
licked
now
. You’re
beaten
to
a
pulp
. You’re
down
and
out
.”
But
the
vision
of
that
first
fight
still
lingered
under
his
eyelids
,
and
as
he
watched
he
saw
it
dissolve
and
reshape
into
the
series
of
fights
which
had
followed
. Six
months
later
Cheese-Face
(that
was
the
boy)
had
whipped
him
again
. But
he
had
blacked
Cheese-Face’s
eye
that
time
. That
was
going
some
. He
saw
them
all
, fight
after
fight
, himself
always
whipped
and
Cheese-Face
exulting
over
him
. But
he
had
never
run
away
. He
felt
strengthened
by
the
memory
of
that
. He
had
always
stayed
and
taken
his
medicine
. Cheese-Face
had
been
a
little
fiend
at
fighting
, and
had
never
once
shown
mercy
to
him
. But
he
had
stayed
! He
had
stayed
with
it
!
Next
, he
saw
a
narrow
alley
, between
ramshackle
frame
buildings
. The
end
of
the
alley
was
blocked
by
a
one-story
brick
building
, out
of
which
issued
the
rhythmic
thunder
of
the
presses
, running
off
the
first
edition
of
the
_Enquirer_
. He
was
eleven
, and
Cheese-Face
was
thirteen
,
and
they
both
carried
the
_Enquirer_
. That
was
why
they
were
there
,
waiting
for
their
papers
. And
, of
course
, Cheese-Face
had
picked
on
him
again
, and
there
was
another
fight
that
was
indeterminate
, because
at
quarter
to
four
the
door
of
the
press-room
was
thrown
open
and
the
gang
of
boys
crowded
in
to
fold
their
papers
.
“I’ll
lick
you
to-morrow
,”
he
heard
Cheese-Face
promise
; and
he
heard
his
own
voice
, piping
and
trembling
with
unshed
tears
, agreeing
to
be
there
on
the
morrow
.
And
he
had
come
there
the
next
day
, hurrying
from
school
to
be
there
first
, and
beating
Cheese-Face
by
two
minutes
. The
other
boys
said
he
was
all
right
, and
gave
him
advice
, pointing
out
his
faults
as
a
scrapper
and
promising
him
victory
if
he
carried
out
their
instructions
. The
same
boys
gave
Cheese-Face
advice
, too
. How
they
had
enjoyed
the
fight
! He
paused
in
his
recollections
long
enough
to
envy
them
the
spectacle
he
and
Cheese-Face
had
put
up
. Then
the
fight
was
on
, and
it
went
on
, without
rounds
, for
thirty
minutes
, until
the
press-room
door
was
opened
.
He
watched
the
youthful
apparition
of
himself
, day
after
day
, hurrying
from
school
to
the
_Enquirer_
alley
. He
could
not
walk
very
fast
. He
was
stiff
and
lame
from
the
incessant
fighting
. His
forearms
were
black
and
blue
from
wrist
to
elbow
, what
of
the
countless
blows
he
had
warded
off
, and
here
and
there
the
tortured
flesh
was
beginning
to
fester
. His
head
and
arms
and
shoulders
ached
, the
small
of
his
back
ached
,—he
ached
all
over
, and
his
brain
was
heavy
and
dazed
. He
did
not
play
at
school
. Nor
did
he
study
. Even
to
sit
still
all
day
at
his
desk
, as
he
did
, was
a
torment
. It
seemed
centuries
since
he
had
begun
the
round
of
daily
fights
, and
time
stretched
away
into
a
nightmare
and
infinite
future
of
daily
fights
. Why
couldn’t
Cheese-Face
be
licked
? he
often
thought
; that
would
put
him
, Martin
, out
of
his
misery
. It
never
entered
his
head
to
cease
fighting
, to
allow
Cheese-Face
to
whip
him
.
And
so
he
dragged
himself
to
the
_Enquirer_
alley
, sick
in
body
and
soul
, but
learning
the
long
patience
, to
confront
his
eternal
enemy
,
Cheese-Face
, who
was
just
as
sick
as
he
, and
just
a
bit
willing
to
quit
if
it
were
not
for
the
gang
of
newsboys
that
looked
on
and
made
pride
painful
and
necessary
. One
afternoon
, after
twenty
minutes
of
desperate
efforts
to
annihilate
each
other
according
to
set
rules
that
did
not
permit
kicking
, striking
below
the
belt
, nor
hitting
when
one
was
down
,
Cheese-Face
, panting
for
breath
and
reeling
, offered
to
call
it
quits
.
And
Martin
, head
on
arms
, thrilled
at
the
picture
he
caught
of
himself
,
at
that
moment
in
the
afternoon
of
long
ago
, when
he
reeled
and
panted
and
choked
with
the
blood
that
ran
into
his
mouth
and
down
his
throat
from
his
cut
lips
; when
he
tottered
toward
Cheese-Face
, spitting
out
a
mouthful
of
blood
so
that
he
could
speak
, crying
out
that
he
would
never
quit
, though
Cheese-Face
could
give
in
if
he
wanted
to
. And
Cheese-Face
did
not
give
in
, and
the
fight
went
on
.
The
next
day
and
the
next
, days
without
end
, witnessed
the
afternoon
fight
. When
he
put
up
his
arms
, each
day
, to
begin
, they
pained
exquisitely
, and
the
first
few
blows
, struck
and
received
, racked
his
soul
; after
that
things
grew
numb
, and
he
fought
on
blindly
, seeing
as
in
a
dream
, dancing
and
wavering
, the
large
features
and
burning
,
animal-like
eyes
of
Cheese-Face
. He
concentrated
upon
that
face
; all
else
about
him
was
a
whirling
void
. There
was
nothing
else
in
the
world
but
that
face
, and
he
would
never
know
rest
, blessed
rest
, until
he
had
beaten
that
face
into
a
pulp
with
his
bleeding
knuckles
, or
until
the
bleeding
knuckles
that
somehow
belonged
to
that
face
had
beaten
him
into
a
pulp
. And
then
, one
way
or
the
other
, he
would
have
rest
. But
to
quit
,—for
him
, Martin
, to
quit
,—that
was
impossible
!
Came
the
day
when
he
dragged
himself
into
the
_Enquirer_
alley
, and
there
was
no
Cheese-Face
. Nor
did
Cheese-Face
come
. The
boys
congratulated
him
, and
told
him
that
he
had
licked
Cheese-Face
. But
Martin
was
not
satisfied
. He
had
not
licked
Cheese-Face
, nor
had
Cheese-Face
licked
him
. The
problem
had
not
been
solved
. It
was
not
until
afterward
that
they
learned
that
Cheese-Face’s
father
had
died
suddenly
that
very
day
.
Martin
skipped
on
through
the
years
to
the
night
in
the
nigger
heaven
at
the
Auditorium
. He
was
seventeen
and
just
back
from
sea
. A
row
started
. Somebody
was
bullying
somebody
, and
Martin
interfered
, to
be
confronted
by
Cheese-Face’s
blazing
eyes
.
“I’ll
fix
you
after
de
show
,”
his
ancient
enemy
hissed
.
Martin
nodded
. The
nigger-heaven
bouncer
was
making
his
way
toward
the
disturbance
.
“I’ll
meet
you
outside
, after
the
last
act
,”
Martin
whispered
, the
while
his
face
showed
undivided
interest
in
the
buck-and-wing
dancing
on
the
stage
.
The
bouncer
glared
and
went
away
.
“Got
a
gang
?”
he
asked
Cheese-Face
, at
the
end
of
the
act
.
“Sure
.”
“Then
I
got
to
get
one
,”
Martin
announced
.
Between
the
acts
he
mustered
his
following—three
fellows
he
knew
from
the
nail
works
, a
railroad
fireman
, and
half
a
dozen
of
the
Boo
Gang
,
along
with
as
many
more
from
the
dread
Eighteen-and-Market
Gang
.
When
the
theatre
let
out
, the
two
gangs
strung
along
inconspicuously
on
opposite
sides
of
the
street
. When
they
came
to
a
quiet
corner
, they
united
and
held
a
council
of
war
.
“Eighth
Street
Bridge
is
the
place
,”
said
a
red-headed
fellow
belonging
to
Cheese-Face’s
Gang
. “You
kin
fight
in
the
middle
, under
the
electric
light
, an’
whichever
way
the
bulls
come
in
we
kin
sneak
the
other
way
.”
“That’s
agreeable
to
me
,”
Martin
said
, after
consulting
with
the
leaders
of
his
own
gang
.
The
Eighth
Street
Bridge
, crossing
an
arm
of
San
Antonio
Estuary
, was
the
length
of
three
city
blocks
. In
the
middle
of
the
bridge
, and
at
each
end
, were
electric
lights
. No
policeman
could
pass
those
end-lights
unseen
. It
was
the
safe
place
for
the
battle
that
revived
itself
under
Martin’s
eyelids
. He
saw
the
two
gangs
, aggressive
and
sullen
, rigidly
keeping
apart
from
each
other
and
backing
their
respective
champions
; and
he
saw
himself
and
Cheese-Face
stripping
. A
short
distance
away
lookouts
were
set
, their
task
being
to
watch
the
lighted
ends
of
the
bridge
. A
member
of
the
Boo
Gang
held
Martin’s
coat
, and
shirt
, and
cap
, ready
to
race
with
them
into
safety
in
case
the
police
interfered
. Martin
watched
himself
go
into
the
centre
,
facing
Cheese-Face
, and
he
heard
himself
say
, as
he
held
up
his
hand
warningly
:-
“They
ain’t
no
hand-shakin’
in
this
. Understand
? They
ain’t
nothin’
but
scrap
. No
throwin’
up
the
sponge
. This
is
a
grudge-fight
an’
it’s
to
a
finish
. Understand
? Somebody’s
goin’
to
get
licked
.”
Cheese-Face
wanted
to
demur
,—Martin
could
see
that
,—but
Cheese-Face’s
old
perilous
pride
was
touched
before
the
two
gangs
.
“Aw
, come
on
,”
he
replied
. “Wot’s
the
good
of
chewin’
de
rag
about
it
?
I’m
wit’
cheh
to
de
finish
.”
Then
they
fell
upon
each
other
, like
young
bulls
, in
all
the
glory
of
youth
, with
naked
fists
, with
hatred
, with
desire
to
hurt
, to
maim
, to
destroy
. All
the
painful
, thousand
years’
gains
of
man
in
his
upward
climb
through
creation
were
lost
. Only
the
electric
light
remained
, a
milestone
on
the
path
of
the
great
human
adventure
. Martin
and
Cheese-Face
were
two
savages
, of
the
stone
age
, of
the
squatting
place
and
the
tree
refuge
. They
sank
lower
and
lower
into
the
muddy
abyss
,
back
into
the
dregs
of
the
raw
beginnings
of
life
, striving
blindly
and
chemically
, as
atoms
strive
, as
the
star-dust
of
the
heavens
strives
,
colliding
, recoiling
, and
colliding
again
and
eternally
again
.
“God
! We
are
animals
! Brute-beasts
!”
Martin
muttered
aloud
, as
he
watched
the
progress
of
the
fight
. It
was
to
him
, with
his
splendid
power
of
vision
, like
gazing
into
a
kinetoscope
. He
was
both
onlooker
and
participant
. His
long
months
of
culture
and
refinement
shuddered
at
the
sight
; then
the
present
was
blotted
out
of
his
consciousness
and
the
ghosts
of
the
past
possessed
him
, and
he
was
Martin
Eden
, just
returned
from
sea
and
fighting
Cheese-Face
on
the
Eighth
Street
Bridge
.
He
suffered
and
toiled
and
sweated
and
bled
, and
exulted
when
his
naked
knuckles
smashed
home
.
They
were
twin
whirlwinds
of
hatred
, revolving
about
each
other
monstrously
. The
time
passed
, and
the
two
hostile
gangs
became
very
quiet
. They
had
never
witnessed
such
intensity
of
ferocity
, and
they
were
awed
by
it
. The
two
fighters
were
greater
brutes
than
they
. The
first
splendid
velvet
edge
of
youth
and
condition
wore
off
, and
they
fought
more
cautiously
and
deliberately
. There
had
been
no
advantage
gained
either
way
. “It’s
anybody’s
fight
,”
Martin
heard
some
one
saying
. Then
he
followed
up
a
feint
, right
and
left
, was
fiercely
countered
, and
felt
his
cheek
laid
open
to
the
bone
. No
bare
knuckle
had
done
that
. He
heard
mutters
of
amazement
at
the
ghastly
damage
wrought
, and
was
drenched
with
his
own
blood
. But
he
gave
no
sign
. He
became
immensely
wary
, for
he
was
wise
with
knowledge
of
the
low
cunning
and
foul
vileness
of
his
kind
. He
watched
and
waited
, until
he
feigned
a
wild
rush
, which
he
stopped
midway
, for
he
had
seen
the
glint
of
metal
.
“Hold
up
yer
hand
!”
he
screamed
. “Them’s
brass
knuckles
, an’
you
hit
me
with
’em
!”
Both
gangs
surged
forward
, growling
and
snarling
. In
a
second
there
would
be
a
free-for-all
fight
, and
he
would
be
robbed
of
his
vengeance
.
He
was
beside
himself
.
“You
guys
keep
out
!”
he
screamed
hoarsely
. “Understand
? Say
, d’ye
understand
?”
They
shrank
away
from
him
. They
were
brutes
, but
he
was
the
arch-brute
,
a
thing
of
terror
that
towered
over
them
and
dominated
them
.
“This
is
my
scrap
, an’
they
ain’t
goin’
to
be
no
buttin’
in
. Gimme
them
knuckles
.”
Cheese-Face
, sobered
and
a
bit
frightened
, surrendered
the
foul
weapon
.
“You
passed
’em
to
him
, you
red-head
sneakin’
in
behind
the
push
there
,”
Martin
went
on
, as
he
tossed
the
knuckles
into
the
water
. “I
seen
you
, an’
I
was
wonderin’
what
you
was
up
to
. If
you
try
anything
like
that
again
, I’ll
beat
cheh
to
death
. Understand
?”
They
fought
on
, through
exhaustion
and
beyond
, to
exhaustion
immeasurable
and
inconceivable
, until
the
crowd
of
brutes
, its
blood-lust
sated
, terrified
by
what
it
saw
, begged
them
impartially
to
cease
. And
Cheese-Face
, ready
to
drop
and
die
, or
to
stay
on
his
legs
and
die
, a
grisly
monster
out
of
whose
features
all
likeness
to
Cheese-Face
had
been
beaten
, wavered
and
hesitated
; but
Martin
sprang
in
and
smashed
him
again
and
again
.
Next
, after
a
seeming
century
or
so
, with
Cheese-Face
weakening
fast
,
in
a
mix-up
of
blows
there
was
a
loud
snap
, and
Martin’s
right
arm
dropped
to
his
side
. It
was
a
broken
bone
. Everybody
heard
it
and
knew
;
and
Cheese-Face
knew
, rushing
like
a
tiger
in
the
other’s
extremity
and
raining
blow
on
blow
. Martin’s
gang
surged
forward
to
interfere
. Dazed
by
the
rapid
succession
of
blows
, Martin
warned
them
back
with
vile
and
earnest
curses
sobbed
out
and
groaned
in
ultimate
desolation
and
despair
.
He
punched
on
, with
his
left
hand
only
, and
as
he
punched
, doggedly
,
only
half-conscious
, as
from
a
remote
distance
he
heard
murmurs
of
fear
in
the
gangs
, and
one
who
said
with
shaking
voice
: “This
ain’t
a
scrap
,
fellows
. It’s
murder
, an’
we
ought
to
stop
it
.”
But
no
one
stopped
it
, and
he
was
glad
, punching
on
wearily
and
endlessly
with
his
one
arm
, battering
away
at
a
bloody
something
before
him
that
was
not
a
face
but
a
horror
, an
oscillating
, hideous
,
gibbering
, nameless
thing
that
persisted
before
his
wavering
vision
and
would
not
go
away
. And
he
punched
on
and
on
, slower
and
slower
, as
the
last
shreds
of
vitality
oozed
from
him
, through
centuries
and
aeons
and
enormous
lapses
of
time
, until
, in
a
dim
way
, he
became
aware
that
the
nameless
thing
was
sinking
, slowly
sinking
down
to
the
rough
board-planking
of
the
bridge
. And
the
next
moment
he
was
standing
over
it
, staggering
and
swaying
on
shaky
legs
, clutching
at
the
air
for
support
, and
saying
in
a
voice
he
did
not
recognize
:-
“D’ye
want
any
more
? Say
, d’ye
want
any
more
?”
He
was
still
saying
it
, over
and
over
,—demanding
, entreating
,
threatening
, to
know
if
it
wanted
any
more
,—when
he
felt
the
fellows
of
his
gang
laying
hands
on
him
, patting
him
on
the
back
and
trying
to
put
his
coat
on
him
. And
then
came
a
sudden
rush
of
blackness
and
oblivion
.
The
tin
alarm-clock
on
the
table
ticked
on
, but
Martin
Eden
, his
face
buried
on
his
arms
, did
not
hear
it
. He
heard
nothing
. He
did
not
think
. So
absolutely
had
he
relived
life
that
he
had
fainted
just
as
he
fainted
years
before
on
the
Eighth
Street
Bridge
. For
a
full
minute
the
blackness
and
the
blankness
endured
. Then
, like
one
from
the
dead
, he
sprang
upright
, eyes
flaming
, sweat
pouring
down
his
face
, shouting
:-
“I
licked
you
, Cheese-Face
! It
took
me
eleven
years
, but
I
licked
you
!”
His
knees
were
trembling
under
him
, he
felt
faint
, and
he
staggered
back
to
the
bed
, sinking
down
and
sitting
on
the
edge
of
it
. He
was
still
in
the
clutch
of
the
past
. He
looked
about
the
room
, perplexed
,
alarmed
, wondering
where
he
was
, until
he
caught
sight
of
the
pile
of
manuscripts
in
the
corner
. Then
the
wheels
of
memory
slipped
ahead
through
four
years
of
time
, and
he
was
aware
of
the
present
, of
the
books
he
had
opened
and
the
universe
he
had
won
from
their
pages
, of
his
dreams
and
ambitions
, and
of
his
love
for
a
pale
wraith
of
a
girl
,
sensitive
and
sheltered
and
ethereal
, who
would
die
of
horror
did
she
witness
but
one
moment
of
what
he
had
just
lived
through—one
moment
of
all
the
muck
of
life
through
which
he
had
waded
.
He
arose
to
his
feet
and
confronted
himself
in
the
looking-glass
.
“And
so
you
arise
from
the
mud
, Martin
Eden
,”
he
said
solemnly
. “And
you
cleanse
your
eyes
in
a
great
brightness
, and
thrust
your
shoulders
among
the
stars
, doing
what
all
life
has
done
, letting
the
‘ape
and
tiger
die’
and
wresting
highest
heritage
from
all
powers
that
be
.”
He
looked
more
closely
at
himself
and
laughed
.
“A
bit
of
hysteria
and
melodrama
, eh
?”
he
queried
. “Well
, never
mind
.
You
licked
Cheese-Face
, and
you’ll
lick
the
editors
if
it
takes
twice
eleven
years
to
do
it
in
. You
can’t
stop
here
. You’ve
got
to
go
on
.
It’s
to
a
finish
, you
know
.”
CHAPTER
XVI
.
The
alarm-clock
went
off
, jerking
Martin
out
of
sleep
with
a
suddenness
that
would
have
given
headache
to
one
with
less
splendid
constitution
.
Though
he
slept
soundly
, he
awoke
instantly
, like
a
cat
, and
he
awoke
eagerly
, glad
that
the
five
hours
of
unconsciousness
were
gone
. He
hated
the
oblivion
of
sleep
. There
was
too
much
to
do
, too
much
of
life
to
live
. He
grudged
every
moment
of
life
sleep
robbed
him
of
, and
before
the
clock
had
ceased
its
clattering
he
was
head
and
ears
in
the
washbasin
and
thrilling
to
the
cold
bite
of
the
water
.
But
he
did
not
follow
his
regular
programme
. There
was
no
unfinished
story
waiting
his
hand
, no
new
story
demanding
articulation
. He
had
studied
late
, and
it
was
nearly
time
for
breakfast
. He
tried
to
read
a
chapter
in
Fiske
, but
his
brain
was
restless
and
he
closed
the
book
.
To-day
witnessed
the
beginning
of
the
new
battle
, wherein
for
some
time
there
would
be
no
writing
. He
was
aware
of
a
sadness
akin
to
that
with
which
one
leaves
home
and
family
. He
looked
at
the
manuscripts
in
the
corner
. That
was
it
. He
was
going
away
from
them
, his
pitiful
,
dishonored
children
that
were
welcome
nowhere
. He
went
over
and
began
to
rummage
among
them
, reading
snatches
here
and
there
, his
favorite
portions
. “The
Pot”
he
honored
with
reading
aloud
, as
he
did
“Adventure
.”
“Joy
,”
his
latest-born
, completed
the
day
before
and
tossed
into
the
corner
for
lack
of
stamps
, won
his
keenest
approbation
.
“I
can’t
understand
,”
he
murmured
. “Or
maybe
it’s
the
editors
who
can’t
understand
. There’s
nothing
wrong
with
that
. They
publish
worse
every
month
. Everything
they
publish
is
worse—nearly
everything
, anyway
.”
After
breakfast
he
put
the
type-writer
in
its
case
and
carried
it
down
into
Oakland
.
“I
owe
a
month
on
it
,”
he
told
the
clerk
in
the
store
. “But
you
tell
the
manager
I’m
going
to
work
and
that
I’ll
be
in
in
a
month
or
so
and
straighten
up
.”
He
crossed
on
the
ferry
to
San
Francisco
and
made
his
way
to
an
employment
office
. “Any
kind
of
work
, no
trade
,”
he
told
the
agent
; and
was
interrupted
by
a
new-comer
, dressed
rather
foppishly
, as
some
workingmen
dress
who
have
instincts
for
finer
things
. The
agent
shook
his
head
despondently
.
“Nothin’
doin’
eh
?”
said
the
other
. “Well
, I
got
to
get
somebody
to-day
.”
He
turned
and
stared
at
Martin
, and
Martin
, staring
back
, noted
the
puffed
and
discolored
face
, handsome
and
weak
, and
knew
that
he
had
been
making
a
night
of
it
.
“Lookin’
for
a
job
?”
the
other
queried
. “What
can
you
do
?”
“Hard
labor
, sailorizing
, run
a
type-writer
, no
shorthand
, can
sit
on
a
horse
, willing
to
do
anything
and
tackle
anything
,”
was
the
answer
.
The
other
nodded
.
“Sounds
good
to
me
. My
name’s
Dawson
, Joe
Dawson
, an’
I’m
tryin’
to
scare
up
a
laundryman
.”
“Too
much
for
me
.”
Martin
caught
an
amusing
glimpse
of
himself
ironing
fluffy
white
things
that
women
wear
. But
he
had
taken
a
liking
to
the
other
, and
he
added
: “I
might
do
the
plain
washing
. I
learned
that
much
at
sea
.”
Joe
Dawson
thought
visibly
for
a
moment
.
“Look
here
, let’s
get
together
an’
frame
it
up
. Willin’
to
listen
?”
Martin
nodded
.
“This
is
a
small
laundry
, up
country
, belongs
to
Shelly
Hot
Springs
,—hotel
, you
know
. Two
men
do
the
work
, boss
and
assistant
. I’m
the
boss
. You
don’t
work
for
me
, but
you
work
under
me
. Think
you’d
be
willin’
to
learn
?”
Martin
paused
to
think
. The
prospect
was
alluring
. A
few
months
of
it
,
and
he
would
have
time
to
himself
for
study
. He
could
work
hard
and
study
hard
.
“Good
grub
an’
a
room
to
yourself
,”
Joe
said
.
That
settled
it
. A
room
to
himself
where
he
could
burn
the
midnight
oil
unmolested
.
“But
work
like
hell
,”
the
other
added
.
Martin
caressed
his
swelling
shoulder-muscles
significantly
. “That
came
from
hard
work
.”
“Then
let’s
get
to
it
.”
Joe
held
his
hand
to
his
head
for
a
moment
.
“Gee
, but
it’s
a
stem-winder
. Can
hardly
see
. I
went
down
the
line
last
night—everything—everything
. Here’s
the
frame-up
. The
wages
for
two
is
a
hundred
and
board
. I’ve
ben
drawin’
down
sixty
, the
second
man
forty
.
But
he
knew
the
biz
. You’re
green
. If
I
break
you
in
, I’ll
be
doing
plenty
of
your
work
at
first
. Suppose
you
begin
at
thirty
, an’
work
up
to
the
forty
. I’ll
play
fair
. Just
as
soon
as
you
can
do
your
share
you
get
the
forty
.”
“I’ll
go
you
,”
Martin
announced
, stretching
out
his
hand
, which
the
other
shook
. “Any
advance
?—for
rail-road
ticket
and
extras
?”
“I
blew
it
in
,”
was
Joe’s
sad
answer
, with
another
reach
at
his
aching
head
. “All
I
got
is
a
return
ticket
.”
“And
I’m
broke—when
I
pay
my
board
.”
“Jump
it
,”
Joe
advised
.
“Can’t
. Owe
it
to
my
sister
.”
Joe
whistled
a
long
, perplexed
whistle
, and
racked
his
brains
to
little
purpose
.
“I’ve
got
the
price
of
the
drinks
,”
he
said
desperately
. “Come
on
, an’
mebbe
we’ll
cook
up
something
.”
Martin
declined
.
“Water-wagon
?”
This
time
Martin
nodded
, and
Joe
lamented
, “Wish
I
was
.”
“But
I
somehow
just
can’t
,”
he
said
in
extenuation
. “After
I’ve
ben
workin’
like
hell
all
week
I
just
got
to
booze
up
. If
I
didn’t
, I’d
cut
my
throat
or
burn
up
the
premises
. But
I’m
glad
you’re
on
the
wagon
.
Stay
with
it
.”
Martin
knew
of
the
enormous
gulf
between
him
and
this
man—the
gulf
the
books
had
made
; but
he
found
no
difficulty
in
crossing
back
over
that
gulf
. He
had
lived
all
his
life
in
the
working-class
world
, and
the
_camaraderie_
of
labor
was
second
nature
with
him
. He
solved
the
difficulty
of
transportation
that
was
too
much
for
the
other’s
aching
head
. He
would
send
his
trunk
up
to
Shelly
Hot
Springs
on
Joe’s
ticket
.
As
for
himself
, there
was
his
wheel
. It
was
seventy
miles
, and
he
could
ride
it
on
Sunday
and
be
ready
for
work
Monday
morning
. In
the
meantime
he
would
go
home
and
pack
up
. There
was
no
one
to
say
good-by
to
. Ruth
and
her
whole
family
were
spending
the
long
summer
in
the
Sierras
, at
Lake
Tahoe
.
He
arrived
at
Shelly
Hot
Springs
, tired
and
dusty
, on
Sunday
night
. Joe
greeted
him
exuberantly
. With
a
wet
towel
bound
about
his
aching
brow
,
he
had
been
at
work
all
day
.
“Part
of
last
week’s
washin’
mounted
up
, me
bein’
away
to
get
you
,”
he
explained
. “Your
box
arrived
all
right
. It’s
in
your
room
. But
it’s
a
hell
of
a
thing
to
call
a
trunk
. An’
what’s
in
it
? Gold
bricks
?”
Joe
sat
on
the
bed
while
Martin
unpacked
. The
box
was
a
packing-case
for
breakfast
food
, and
Mr
. Higginbotham
had
charged
him
half
a
dollar
for
it
. Two
rope
handles
, nailed
on
by
Martin
, had
technically
transformed
it
into
a
trunk
eligible
for
the
baggage-car
. Joe
watched
,
with
bulging
eyes
, a
few
shirts
and
several
changes
of
underclothes
come
out
of
the
box
, followed
by
books
, and
more
books
.
“Books
clean
to
the
bottom
?”
he
asked
.
Martin
nodded
, and
went
on
arranging
the
books
on
a
kitchen
table
which
served
in
the
room
in
place
of
a
wash-stand
.
“Gee
!”
Joe
exploded
, then
waited
in
silence
for
the
deduction
to
arise
in
his
brain
. At
last
it
came
.
“Say
, you
don’t
care
for
the
girls—much
?”
he
queried
.
“No
,”
was
the
answer
. “I
used
to
chase
a
lot
before
I
tackled
the
books
. But
since
then
there’s
no
time
.”
“And
there
won’t
be
any
time
here
. All
you
can
do
is
work
an’
sleep
.”
Martin
thought
of
his
five
hours’
sleep
a
night
, and
smiled
. The
room
was
situated
over
the
laundry
and
was
in
the
same
building
with
the
engine
that
pumped
water
, made
electricity
, and
ran
the
laundry
machinery
. The
engineer
, who
occupied
the
adjoining
room
, dropped
in
to
meet
the
new
hand
and
helped
Martin
rig
up
an
electric
bulb
, on
an
extension
wire
, so
that
it
travelled
along
a
stretched
cord
from
over
the
table
to
the
bed
.
The
next
morning
, at
quarter-past
six
, Martin
was
routed
out
for
a
quarter-to-seven
breakfast
. There
happened
to
be
a
bath-tub
for
the
servants
in
the
laundry
building
, and
he
electrified
Joe
by
taking
a
cold
bath
.
“Gee
, but
you’re
a
hummer
!”
Joe
announced
, as
they
sat
down
to
breakfast
in
a
corner
of
the
hotel
kitchen
.
With
them
was
the
engineer
, the
gardener
, and
the
assistant
gardener
,
and
two
or
three
men
from
the
stable
. They
ate
hurriedly
and
gloomily
,
with
but
little
conversation
, and
as
Martin
ate
and
listened
he
realized
how
far
he
had
travelled
from
their
status
. Their
small
mental
caliber
was
depressing
to
him
, and
he
was
anxious
to
get
away
from
them
. So
he
bolted
his
breakfast
, a
sickly
, sloppy
affair
, as
rapidly
as
they
, and
heaved
a
sigh
of
relief
when
he
passed
out
through
the
kitchen
door
.
It
was
a
perfectly
appointed
, small
steam
laundry
, wherein
the
most
modern
machinery
did
everything
that
was
possible
for
machinery
to
do
.
Martin
, after
a
few
instructions
, sorted
the
great
heaps
of
soiled
clothes
, while
Joe
started
the
masher
and
made
up
fresh
supplies
of
soft-soap
, compounded
of
biting
chemicals
that
compelled
him
to
swathe
his
mouth
and
nostrils
and
eyes
in
bath-towels
till
he
resembled
a
mummy
. Finished
the
sorting
, Martin
lent
a
hand
in
wringing
the
clothes
. This
was
done
by
dumping
them
into
a
spinning
receptacle
that
went
at
a
rate
of
a
few
thousand
revolutions
a
minute
, tearing
the
water
from
the
clothes
by
centrifugal
force
. Then
Martin
began
to
alternate
between
the
dryer
and
the
wringer
, between
times
“shaking
out”
socks
and
stockings
. By
the
afternoon
, one
feeding
and
one
stacking
up
, they
were
running
socks
and
stockings
through
the
mangle
while
the
irons
were
heating
. Then
it
was
hot
irons
and
underclothes
till
six
o’clock
, at
which
time
Joe
shook
his
head
dubiously
.
“Way
behind
,”
he
said
. “Got
to
work
after
supper
.”
And
after
supper
they
worked
until
ten
o’clock
, under
the
blazing
electric
lights
, until
the
last
piece
of
under-clothing
was
ironed
and
folded
away
in
the
distributing
room
. It
was
a
hot
California
night
, and
though
the
windows
were
thrown
wide
, the
room
, with
its
red-hot
ironing-stove
, was
a
furnace
. Martin
and
Joe
, down
to
undershirts
, bare
armed
, sweated
and
panted
for
air
.
“Like
trimming
cargo
in
the
tropics
,”
Martin
said
, when
they
went
upstairs
.
“You’ll
do
,”
Joe
answered
. “You
take
hold
like
a
good
fellow
. If
you
keep
up
the
pace
, you’ll
be
on
thirty
dollars
only
one
month
. The
second
month
you’ll
be
gettin’
your
forty
. But
don’t
tell
me
you
never
ironed
before
. I
know
better
.”
“Never
ironed
a
rag
in
my
life
, honestly
, until
to-day
,”
Martin
protested
.
He
was
surprised
at
his
weariness
when
he
got
into
his
room
, forgetful
of
the
fact
that
he
had
been
on
his
feet
and
working
without
let
up
for
fourteen
hours
. He
set
the
alarm
clock
at
six
, and
measured
back
five
hours
to
one
o’clock
. He
could
read
until
then
. Slipping
off
his
shoes
,
to
ease
his
swollen
feet
, he
sat
down
at
the
table
with
his
books
. He
opened
Fiske
, where
he
had
left
off
to
read
. But
he
found
trouble
and
began
to
read
it
through
a
second
time
. Then
he
awoke
, in
pain
from
his
stiffened
muscles
and
chilled
by
the
mountain
wind
that
had
begun
to
blow
in
through
the
window
. He
looked
at
the
clock
. It
marked
two
. He
had
been
asleep
four
hours
. He
pulled
off
his
clothes
and
crawled
into
bed
, where
he
was
asleep
the
moment
after
his
head
touched
the
pillow
.
Tuesday
was
a
day
of
similar
unremitting
toil
. The
speed
with
which
Joe
worked
won
Martin’s
admiration
. Joe
was
a
dozen
of
demons
for
work
. He
was
keyed
up
to
concert
pitch
, and
there
was
never
a
moment
in
the
long
day
when
he
was
not
fighting
for
moments
. He
concentrated
himself
upon
his
work
and
upon
how
to
save
time
, pointing
out
to
Martin
where
he
did
in
five
motions
what
could
be
done
in
three
, or
in
three
motions
what
could
be
done
in
two
. “Elimination
of
waste
motion
,”
Martin
phrased
it
as
he
watched
and
patterned
after
. He
was
a
good
workman
himself
, quick
and
deft
, and
it
had
always
been
a
point
of
pride
with
him
that
no
man
should
do
any
of
his
work
for
him
or
outwork
him
. As
a
result
, he
concentrated
with
a
similar
singleness
of
purpose
, greedily
snapping
up
the
hints
and
suggestions
thrown
out
by
his
working
mate
. He
“rubbed
out”
collars
and
cuffs
, rubbing
the
starch
out
from
between
the
double
thicknesses
of
linen
so
that
there
would
be
no
blisters
when
it
came
to
the
ironing
, and
doing
it
at
a
pace
that
elicited
Joe’s
praise
.
There
was
never
an
interval
when
something
was
not
at
hand
to
be
done
.
Joe
waited
for
nothing
, waited
on
nothing
, and
went
on
the
jump
from
task
to
task
. They
starched
two
hundred
white
shirts
, with
a
single
gathering
movement
seizing
a
shirt
so
that
the
wristbands
, neckband
,
yoke
, and
bosom
protruded
beyond
the
circling
right
hand
. At
the
same
moment
the
left
hand
held
up
the
body
of
the
shirt
so
that
it
would
not
enter
the
starch
, and
at
the
same
moment
the
right
hand
dipped
into
the
starch—starch
so
hot
that
, in
order
to
wring
it
out
, their
hands
had
to
thrust
, and
thrust
continually
, into
a
bucket
of
cold
water
. And
that
night
they
worked
till
half-past
ten
, dipping
“fancy
starch”—all
the
frilled
and
airy
, delicate
wear
of
ladies
.
“Me
for
the
tropics
and
no
clothes
,”
Martin
laughed
.
“And
me
out
of
a
job
,”
Joe
answered
seriously
. “I
don’t
know
nothin’
but
laundrying
.”
“And
you
know
it
well
.”
“I
ought
to
. Began
in
the
Contra
Costa
in
Oakland
when
I
was
eleven
,
shakin’
out
for
the
mangle
. That
was
eighteen
years
ago
, an’
I’ve
never
done
a
tap
of
anything
else
. But
this
job
is
the
fiercest
I
ever
had
.
Ought
to
be
one
more
man
on
it
at
least
. We
work
to-morrow
night
.
Always
run
the
mangle
Wednesday
nights—collars
an’
cuffs
.”
Martin
set
his
alarm
, drew
up
to
the
table
, and
opened
Fiske
. He
did
not
finish
the
first
paragraph
. The
lines
blurred
and
ran
together
and
his
head
nodded
. He
walked
up
and
down
, batting
his
head
savagely
with
his
fists
, but
he
could
not
conquer
the
numbness
of
sleep
. He
propped
the
book
before
him
, and
propped
his
eyelids
with
his
fingers
, and
fell
asleep
with
his
eyes
wide
open
. Then
he
surrendered
, and
, scarcely
conscious
of
what
he
did
, got
off
his
clothes
and
into
bed
. He
slept
seven
hours
of
heavy
, animal-like
sleep
, and
awoke
by
the
alarm
,
feeling
that
he
had
not
had
enough
.
“Doin’
much
readin’
?”
Joe
asked
.
Martin
shook
his
head
.
“Never
mind
. We
got
to
run
the
mangle
to-night
, but
Thursday
we’ll
knock
off
at
six
. That’ll
give
you
a
chance
.”
Martin
washed
woollens
that
day
, by
hand
, in
a
large
barrel
, with
strong
soft-soap
, by
means
of
a
hub
from
a
wagon
wheel
, mounted
on
a
plunger-pole
that
was
attached
to
a
spring-pole
overhead
.
“My
invention
,”
Joe
said
proudly
. “Beats
a
washboard
an’
your
knuckles
,
and
, besides
, it
saves
at
least
fifteen
minutes
in
the
week
, an’
fifteen
minutes
ain’t
to
be
sneezed
at
in
this
shebang
.”
Running
the
collars
and
cuffs
through
the
mangle
was
also
Joe’s
idea
.
That
night
, while
they
toiled
on
under
the
electric
lights
, he
explained
it
.
“Something
no
laundry
ever
does
, except
this
one
. An’
I
got
to
do
it
if
I’m
goin’
to
get
done
Saturday
afternoon
at
three
o’clock
. But
I
know
how
, an’
that’s
the
difference
. Got
to
have
right
heat
, right
pressure
,
and
run
’em
through
three
times
. Look
at
that
!”
He
held
a
cuff
aloft
.
“Couldn’t
do
it
better
by
hand
or
on
a
tiler
.”
Thursday
, Joe
was
in
a
rage
. A
bundle
of
extra
“fancy
starch”
had
come
in
.
“I’m
goin’
to
quit
,”
he
announced
. “I
won’t
stand
for
it
. I’m
goin’
to
quit
it
cold
. What’s
the
good
of
me
workin’
like
a
slave
all
week
,
a-savin’
minutes
, an’
them
a-comin’
an’
ringin’
in
fancy-starch
extras
on
me
? This
is
a
free
country
, an’
I’m
to
tell
that
fat
Dutchman
what
I
think
of
him
. An’
I
won’t
tell
’m
in
French
. Plain
United
States
is
good
enough
for
me
. Him
a-ringin’
in
fancy
starch
extras
!”
“We
got
to
work
to-night
,”
he
said
the
next
moment
, reversing
his
judgment
and
surrendering
to
fate
.
And
Martin
did
no
reading
that
night
. He
had
seen
no
daily
paper
all
week
, and
, strangely
to
him
, felt
no
desire
to
see
one
. He
was
not
interested
in
the
news
. He
was
too
tired
and
jaded
to
be
interested
in
anything
, though
he
planned
to
leave
Saturday
afternoon
, if
they
finished
at
three
, and
ride
on
his
wheel
to
Oakland
. It
was
seventy
miles
, and
the
same
distance
back
on
Sunday
afternoon
would
leave
him
anything
but
rested
for
the
second
week’s
work
. It
would
have
been
easier
to
go
on
the
train
, but
the
round
trip
was
two
dollars
and
a
half
, and
he
was
intent
on
saving
money
.
CHAPTER
XVII
.
Martin
learned
to
do
many
things
. In
the
course
of
the
first
week
, in
one
afternoon
, he
and
Joe
accounted
for
the
two
hundred
white
shirts
.
Joe
ran
the
tiler
, a
machine
wherein
a
hot
iron
was
hooked
on
a
steel
string
which
furnished
the
pressure
. By
this
means
he
ironed
the
yoke
,
wristbands
, and
neckband
, setting
the
latter
at
right
angles
to
the
shirt
, and
put
the
glossy
finish
on
the
bosom
. As
fast
as
he
finished
them
, he
flung
the
shirts
on
a
rack
between
him
and
Martin
, who
caught
them
up
and
“backed”
them
. This
task
consisted
of
ironing
all
the
unstarched
portions
of
the
shirts
.
It
was
exhausting
work
, carried
on
, hour
after
hour
, at
top
speed
. Out
on
the
broad
verandas
of
the
hotel
, men
and
women
, in
cool
white
,
sipped
iced
drinks
and
kept
their
circulation
down
. But
in
the
laundry
the
air
was
sizzling
. The
huge
stove
roared
red
hot
and
white
hot
,
while
the
irons
, moving
over
the
damp
cloth
, sent
up
clouds
of
steam
.
The
heat
of
these
irons
was
different
from
that
used
by
housewives
. An
iron
that
stood
the
ordinary
test
of
a
wet
finger
was
too
cold
for
Joe
and
Martin
, and
such
test
was
useless
. They
went
wholly
by
holding
the
irons
close
to
their
cheeks
, gauging
the
heat
by
some
secret
mental
process
that
Martin
admired
but
could
not
understand
. When
the
fresh
irons
proved
too
hot
, they
hooked
them
on
iron
rods
and
dipped
them
into
cold
water
. This
again
required
a
precise
and
subtle
judgment
. A
fraction
of
a
second
too
long
in
the
water
and
the
fine
and
silken
edge
of
the
proper
heat
was
lost
, and
Martin
found
time
to
marvel
at
the
accuracy
he
developed—an
automatic
accuracy
, founded
upon
criteria
that
were
machine-like
and
unerring
.
But
there
was
little
time
in
which
to
marvel
. All
Martin’s
consciousness
was
concentrated
in
the
work
. Ceaselessly
active
, head
and
hand
, an
intelligent
machine
, all
that
constituted
him
a
man
was
devoted
to
furnishing
that
intelligence
. There
was
no
room
in
his
brain
for
the
universe
and
its
mighty
problems
. All
the
broad
and
spacious
corridors
of
his
mind
were
closed
and
hermetically
sealed
. The
echoing
chamber
of
his
soul
was
a
narrow
room
, a
conning
tower
, whence
were
directed
his
arm
and
shoulder
muscles
, his
ten
nimble
fingers
, and
the
swift-moving
iron
along
its
steaming
path
in
broad
, sweeping
strokes
,
just
so
many
strokes
and
no
more
, just
so
far
with
each
stroke
and
not
a
fraction
of
an
inch
farther
, rushing
along
interminable
sleeves
,
sides
, backs
, and
tails
, and
tossing
the
finished
shirts
, without
rumpling
, upon
the
receiving
frame
. And
even
as
his
hurrying
soul
tossed
, it
was
reaching
for
another
shirt
. This
went
on
, hour
after
hour
, while
outside
all
the
world
swooned
under
the
overhead
California
sun
. But
there
was
no
swooning
in
that
superheated
room
. The
cool
guests
on
the
verandas
needed
clean
linen
.
The
sweat
poured
from
Martin
. He
drank
enormous
quantities
of
water
,
but
so
great
was
the
heat
of
the
day
and
of
his
exertions
, that
the
water
sluiced
through
the
interstices
of
his
flesh
and
out
at
all
his
pores
. Always
, at
sea
, except
at
rare
intervals
, the
work
he
performed
had
given
him
ample
opportunity
to
commune
with
himself
. The
master
of
the
ship
had
been
lord
of
Martin’s
time
; but
here
the
manager
of
the
hotel
was
lord
of
Martin’s
thoughts
as
well
. He
had
no
thoughts
save
for
the
nerve-racking
, body-destroying
toil
. Outside
of
that
it
was
impossible
to
think
. He
did
not
know
that
he
loved
Ruth
. She
did
not
even
exist
, for
his
driven
soul
had
no
time
to
remember
her
. It
was
only
when
he
crawled
to
bed
at
night
, or
to
breakfast
in
the
morning
,
that
she
asserted
herself
to
him
in
fleeting
memories
.
“This
is
hell
, ain’t
it
?”
Joe
remarked
once
.
Martin
nodded
, but
felt
a
rasp
of
irritation
. The
statement
had
been
obvious
and
unnecessary
. They
did
not
talk
while
they
worked
.
Conversation
threw
them
out
of
their
stride
, as
it
did
this
time
,
compelling
Martin
to
miss
a
stroke
of
his
iron
and
to
make
two
extra
motions
before
he
caught
his
stride
again
.
On
Friday
morning
the
washer
ran
. Twice
a
week
they
had
to
put
through
hotel
linen
,—the
sheets
, pillow-slips
, spreads
, table-cloths
, and
napkins
. This
finished
, they
buckled
down
to
“fancy
starch
.”
It
was
slow
work
, fastidious
and
delicate
, and
Martin
did
not
learn
it
so
readily
. Besides
, he
could
not
take
chances
. Mistakes
were
disastrous
.
“See
that
,”
Joe
said
, holding
up
a
filmy
corset-cover
that
he
could
have
crumpled
from
view
in
one
hand
. “Scorch
that
an’
it’s
twenty
dollars
out
of
your
wages
.”
So
Martin
did
not
scorch
that
, and
eased
down
on
his
muscular
tension
,
though
nervous
tension
rose
higher
than
ever
, and
he
listened
sympathetically
to
the
other’s
blasphemies
as
he
toiled
and
suffered
over
the
beautiful
things
that
women
wear
when
they
do
not
have
to
do
their
own
laundrying
. “Fancy
starch”
was
Martin’s
nightmare
, and
it
was
Joe’s
, too
. It
was
“fancy
starch”
that
robbed
them
of
their
hard-won
minutes
. They
toiled
at
it
all
day
. At
seven
in
the
evening
they
broke
off
to
run
the
hotel
linen
through
the
mangle
. At
ten
o’clock
, while
the
hotel
guests
slept
, the
two
laundrymen
sweated
on
at
“fancy
starch”
till
midnight
, till
one
, till
two
. At
half-past
two
they
knocked
off
.
Saturday
morning
it
was
“fancy
starch
,”
and
odds
and
ends
, and
at
three
in
the
afternoon
the
week’s
work
was
done
.
“You
ain’t
a-goin’
to
ride
them
seventy
miles
into
Oakland
on
top
of
this
?”
Joe
demanded
, as
they
sat
on
the
stairs
and
took
a
triumphant
smoke
.
“Got
to
,”
was
the
answer
.
“What
are
you
goin’
for
?—a
girl
?”
“No
; to
save
two
and
a
half
on
the
railroad
ticket
. I
want
to
renew
some
books
at
the
library
.”
“Why
don’t
you
send
’em
down
an’
up
by
express
? That’ll
cost
only
a
quarter
each
way
.”
Martin
considered
it
.
“An’
take
a
rest
to-morrow
,”
the
other
urged
. “You
need
it
. I
know
I
do
. I’m
plumb
tuckered
out
.”
He
looked
it
. Indomitable
, never
resting
, fighting
for
seconds
and
minutes
all
week
, circumventing
delays
and
crushing
down
obstacles
, a
fount
of
resistless
energy
, a
high-driven
human
motor
, a
demon
for
work
, now
that
he
had
accomplished
the
week’s
task
he
was
in
a
state
of
collapse
. He
was
worn
and
haggard
, and
his
handsome
face
drooped
in
lean
exhaustion
. He
pulled
his
cigarette
spiritlessly
, and
his
voice
was
peculiarly
dead
and
monotonous
. All
the
snap
and
fire
had
gone
out
of
him
. His
triumph
seemed
a
sorry
one
.
“An’
next
week
we
got
to
do
it
all
over
again
,”
he
said
sadly
. “An’
what’s
the
good
of
it
all
, hey
? Sometimes
I
wish
I
was
a
hobo
. They
don’t
work
, an’
they
get
their
livin’
. Gee
! I
wish
I
had
a
glass
of
beer
; but
I
can’t
get
up
the
gumption
to
go
down
to
the
village
an’
get
it
. You’ll
stay
over
, an’
send
your
books
down
by
express
, or
else
you’re
a
damn
fool
.”
“But
what
can
I
do
here
all
day
Sunday
?”
Martin
asked
.
“Rest
. You
don’t
know
how
tired
you
are
. Why
, I’m
that
tired
Sunday
I
can’t
even
read
the
papers
. I
was
sick
once—typhoid
. In
the
hospital
two
months
an’
a
half
. Didn’t
do
a
tap
of
work
all
that
time
. It
was
beautiful
.”
“It
was
beautiful
,”
he
repeated
dreamily
, a
minute
later
.
Martin
took
a
bath
, after
which
he
found
that
the
head
laundryman
had
disappeared
. Most
likely
he
had
gone
for
a
glass
of
beer
Martin
decided
, but
the
half-mile
walk
down
to
the
village
to
find
out
seemed
a
long
journey
to
him
. He
lay
on
his
bed
with
his
shoes
off
, trying
to
make
up
his
mind
. He
did
not
reach
out
for
a
book
. He
was
too
tired
to
feel
sleepy
, and
he
lay
, scarcely
thinking
, in
a
semi-stupor
of
weariness
, until
it
was
time
for
supper
. Joe
did
not
appear
for
that
function
, and
when
Martin
heard
the
gardener
remark
that
most
likely
he
was
ripping
the
slats
off
the
bar
, Martin
understood
. He
went
to
bed
immediately
afterward
, and
in
the
morning
decided
that
he
was
greatly
rested
. Joe
being
still
absent
, Martin
procured
a
Sunday
paper
and
lay
down
in
a
shady
nook
under
the
trees
. The
morning
passed
, he
knew
not
how
. He
did
not
sleep
, nobody
disturbed
him
, and
he
did
not
finish
the
paper
. He
came
back
to
it
in
the
afternoon
, after
dinner
, and
fell
asleep
over
it
.
So
passed
Sunday
, and
Monday
morning
he
was
hard
at
work
, sorting
clothes
, while
Joe
, a
towel
bound
tightly
around
his
head
, with
groans
and
blasphemies
, was
running
the
washer
and
mixing
soft-soap
.
“I
simply
can’t
help
it
,”
he
explained
. “I
got
to
drink
when
Saturday
night
comes
around
.”
Another
week
passed
, a
great
battle
that
continued
under
the
electric
lights
each
night
and
that
culminated
on
Saturday
afternoon
at
three
o’clock
, when
Joe
tasted
his
moment
of
wilted
triumph
and
then
drifted
down
to
the
village
to
forget
. Martin’s
Sunday
was
the
same
as
before
.
He
slept
in
the
shade
of
the
trees
, toiled
aimlessly
through
the
newspaper
, and
spent
long
hours
lying
on
his
back
, doing
nothing
,
thinking
nothing
. He
was
too
dazed
to
think
, though
he
was
aware
that
he
did
not
like
himself
. He
was
self-repelled
, as
though
he
had
undergone
some
degradation
or
was
intrinsically
foul
. All
that
was
god-like
in
him
was
blotted
out
. The
spur
of
ambition
was
blunted
; he
had
no
vitality
with
which
to
feel
the
prod
of
it
. He
was
dead
. His
soul
seemed
dead
. He
was
a
beast
, a
work-beast
. He
saw
no
beauty
in
the
sunshine
sifting
down
through
the
green
leaves
, nor
did
the
azure
vault
of
the
sky
whisper
as
of
old
and
hint
of
cosmic
vastness
and
secrets
trembling
to
disclosure
. Life
was
intolerably
dull
and
stupid
, and
its
taste
was
bad
in
his
mouth
. A
black
screen
was
drawn
across
his
mirror
of
inner
vision
, and
fancy
lay
in
a
darkened
sick-room
where
entered
no
ray
of
light
. He
envied
Joe
, down
in
the
village
, rampant
, tearing
the
slats
off
the
bar
, his
brain
gnawing
with
maggots
, exulting
in
maudlin
ways
over
maudlin
things
, fantastically
and
gloriously
drunk
and
forgetful
of
Monday
morning
and
the
week
of
deadening
toil
to
come
.
A
third
week
went
by
, and
Martin
loathed
himself
, and
loathed
life
. He
was
oppressed
by
a
sense
of
failure
. There
was
reason
for
the
editors
refusing
his
stuff
. He
could
see
that
clearly
now
, and
laugh
at
himself
and
the
dreams
he
had
dreamed
. Ruth
returned
his
“Sea
Lyrics”
by
mail
.
He
read
her
letter
apathetically
. She
did
her
best
to
say
how
much
she
liked
them
and
that
they
were
beautiful
. But
she
could
not
lie
, and
she
could
not
disguise
the
truth
from
herself
. She
knew
they
were
failures
,
and
he
read
her
disapproval
in
every
perfunctory
and
unenthusiastic
line
of
her
letter
. And
she
was
right
. He
was
firmly
convinced
of
it
as
he
read
the
poems
over
. Beauty
and
wonder
had
departed
from
him
, and
as
he
read
the
poems
he
caught
himself
puzzling
as
to
what
he
had
had
in
mind
when
he
wrote
them
. His
audacities
of
phrase
struck
him
as
grotesque
, his
felicities
of
expression
were
monstrosities
, and
everything
was
absurd
, unreal
, and
impossible
. He
would
have
burned
the
“Sea
Lyrics”
on
the
spot
, had
his
will
been
strong
enough
to
set
them
aflame
. There
was
the
engine-room
, but
the
exertion
of
carrying
them
to
the
furnace
was
not
worth
while
. All
his
exertion
was
used
in
washing
other
persons’
clothes
. He
did
not
have
any
left
for
private
affairs
.
He
resolved
that
when
Sunday
came
he
would
pull
himself
together
and
answer
Ruth’s
letter
. But
Saturday
afternoon
, after
work
was
finished
and
he
had
taken
a
bath
, the
desire
to
forget
overpowered
him
. “I
guess
I’ll
go
down
and
see
how
Joe’s
getting
on
,”
was
the
way
he
put
it
to
himself
; and
in
the
same
moment
he
knew
that
he
lied
. But
he
did
not
have
the
energy
to
consider
the
lie
. If
he
had
had
the
energy
, he
would
have
refused
to
consider
the
lie
, because
he
wanted
to
forget
. He
started
for
the
village
slowly
and
casually
, increasing
his
pace
in
spite
of
himself
as
he
neared
the
saloon
.
“I
thought
you
was
on
the
water-wagon
,”
was
Joe’s
greeting
.
Martin
did
not
deign
to
offer
excuses
, but
called
for
whiskey
, filling
his
own
glass
brimming
before
he
passed
the
bottle
.
“Don’t
take
all
night
about
it
,”
he
said
roughly
.
The
other
was
dawdling
with
the
bottle
, and
Martin
refused
to
wait
for
him
, tossing
the
glass
off
in
a
gulp
and
refilling
it
.
“Now
, I
can
wait
for
you
,”
he
said
grimly
; “but
hurry
up
.”
Joe
hurried
, and
they
drank
together
.
“The
work
did
it
, eh
?”
Joe
queried
.
Martin
refused
to
discuss
the
matter
.
“It’s
fair
hell
, I
know
,”
the
other
went
on
, “but
I
kind
of
hate
to
see
you
come
off
the
wagon
, Mart
. Well
, here’s
how
!”
Martin
drank
on
silently
, biting
out
his
orders
and
invitations
and
awing
the
barkeeper
, an
effeminate
country
youngster
with
watery
blue
eyes
and
hair
parted
in
the
middle
.
“It’s
something
scandalous
the
way
they
work
us
poor
devils
,”
Joe
was
remarking
. “If
I
didn’t
bowl
up
, I’d
break
loose
an’
burn
down
the
shebang
. My
bowlin’
up
is
all
that
saves
’em
, I
can
tell
you
that
.”
But
Martin
made
no
answer
. A
few
more
drinks
, and
in
his
brain
he
felt
the
maggots
of
intoxication
beginning
to
crawl
. Ah
, it
was
living
, the
first
breath
of
life
he
had
breathed
in
three
weeks
. His
dreams
came
back
to
him
. Fancy
came
out
of
the
darkened
room
and
lured
him
on
, a
thing
of
flaming
brightness
. His
mirror
of
vision
was
silver-clear
, a
flashing
, dazzling
palimpsest
of
imagery
. Wonder
and
beauty
walked
with
him
, hand
in
hand
, and
all
power
was
his
. He
tried
to
tell
it
to
Joe
,
but
Joe
had
visions
of
his
own
, infallible
schemes
whereby
he
would
escape
the
slavery
of
laundry-work
and
become
himself
the
owner
of
a
great
steam
laundry
.
“I
tell
yeh
, Mart
, they
won’t
be
no
kids
workin’
in
my
laundry—not
on
yer
life
. An’
they
won’t
be
no
workin’
a
livin’
soul
after
six
P
.M
. You
hear
me
talk
! They’ll
be
machinery
enough
an’
hands
enough
to
do
it
all
in
decent
workin’
hours
, an’
Mart
, s’help
me
, I’ll
make
yeh
superintendent
of
the
shebang—the
whole
of
it
, all
of
it
. Now
here’s
the
scheme
. I
get
on
the
water-wagon
an’
save
my
money
for
two
years—save
an’
then—”
But
Martin
turned
away
, leaving
him
to
tell
it
to
the
barkeeper
, until
that
worthy
was
called
away
to
furnish
drinks
to
two
farmers
who
,
coming
in
, accepted
Martin’s
invitation
. Martin
dispensed
royal
largess
, inviting
everybody
up
, farm-hands
, a
stableman
, and
the
gardener’s
assistant
from
the
hotel
, the
barkeeper
, and
the
furtive
hobo
who
slid
in
like
a
shadow
and
like
a
shadow
hovered
at
the
end
of
the
bar
.
CHAPTER
XVIII
.
Monday
morning
, Joe
groaned
over
the
first
truck
load
of
clothes
to
the
washer
.
“I
say
,”
he
began
.
“Don’t
talk
to
me
,”
Martin
snarled
.
“I’m
sorry
, Joe
,”
he
said
at
noon
, when
they
knocked
off
for
dinner
.
Tears
came
into
the
other’s
eyes
.
“That’s
all
right
, old
man
,”
he
said
. “We’re
in
hell
, an’
we
can’t
help
ourselves
. An’
, you
know
, I
kind
of
like
you
a
whole
lot
. That’s
what
made
it—hurt
. I
cottoned
to
you
from
the
first
.”
Martin
shook
his
hand
.
“Let’s
quit
,”
Joe
suggested
. “Let’s
chuck
it
, an’
go
hoboin’
. I
ain’t
never
tried
it
, but
it
must
be
dead
easy
. An’
nothin’
to
do
. Just
think
of
it
, nothin’
to
do
. I
was
sick
once
, typhoid
, in
the
hospital
, an’
it
was
beautiful
. I
wish
I’d
get
sick
again
.”
The
week
dragged
on
. The
hotel
was
full
, and
extra
“fancy
starch”
poured
in
upon
them
. They
performed
prodigies
of
valor
. They
fought
late
each
night
under
the
electric
lights
, bolted
their
meals
, and
even
got
in
a
half
hour’s
work
before
breakfast
. Martin
no
longer
took
his
cold
baths
. Every
moment
was
drive
, drive
, drive
, and
Joe
was
the
masterful
shepherd
of
moments
, herding
them
carefully
, never
losing
one
, counting
them
over
like
a
miser
counting
gold
, working
on
in
a
frenzy
, toil-mad
, a
feverish
machine
, aided
ably
by
that
other
machine
that
thought
of
itself
as
once
having
been
one
Martin
Eden
, a
man
.
But
it
was
only
at
rare
moments
that
Martin
was
able
to
think
. The
house
of
thought
was
closed
, its
windows
boarded
up
, and
he
was
its
shadowy
caretaker
. He
was
a
shadow
. Joe
was
right
. They
were
both
shadows
, and
this
was
the
unending
limbo
of
toil
. Or
was
it
a
dream
?
Sometimes
, in
the
steaming
, sizzling
heat
, as
he
swung
the
heavy
irons
back
and
forth
over
the
white
garments
, it
came
to
him
that
it
was
a
dream
. In
a
short
while
, or
maybe
after
a
thousand
years
or
so
, he
would
awake
, in
his
little
room
with
the
ink-stained
table
, and
take
up
his
writing
where
he
had
left
off
the
day
before
. Or
maybe
that
was
a
dream
, too
, and
the
awakening
would
be
the
changing
of
the
watches
,
when
he
would
drop
down
out
of
his
bunk
in
the
lurching
forecastle
and
go
up
on
deck
, under
the
tropic
stars
, and
take
the
wheel
and
feel
the
cool
tradewind
blowing
through
his
flesh
.
Came
Saturday
and
its
hollow
victory
at
three
o’clock
.
“Guess
I’ll
go
down
an’
get
a
glass
of
beer
,”
Joe
said
, in
the
queer
,
monotonous
tones
that
marked
his
week-end
collapse
.
Martin
seemed
suddenly
to
wake
up
. He
opened
the
kit
bag
and
oiled
his
wheel
, putting
graphite
on
the
chain
and
adjusting
the
bearings
. Joe
was
halfway
down
to
the
saloon
when
Martin
passed
by
, bending
low
over
the
handle-bars
, his
legs
driving
the
ninety-six
gear
with
rhythmic
strength
, his
face
set
for
seventy
miles
of
road
and
grade
and
dust
. He
slept
in
Oakland
that
night
, and
on
Sunday
covered
the
seventy
miles
back
. And
on
Monday
morning
, weary
, he
began
the
new
week’s
work
, but
he
had
kept
sober
.
A
fifth
week
passed
, and
a
sixth
, during
which
he
lived
and
toiled
as
a
machine
, with
just
a
spark
of
something
more
in
him
, just
a
glimmering
bit
of
soul
, that
compelled
him
, at
each
week-end
, to
scorch
off
the
hundred
and
forty
miles
. But
this
was
not
rest
. It
was
super-machinelike
, and
it
helped
to
crush
out
the
glimmering
bit
of
soul
that
was
all
that
was
left
him
from
former
life
. At
the
end
of
the
seventh
week
, without
intending
it
, too
weak
to
resist
, he
drifted
down
to
the
village
with
Joe
and
drowned
life
and
found
life
until
Monday
morning
.
Again
, at
the
week-ends
, he
ground
out
the
one
hundred
and
forty
miles
,
obliterating
the
numbness
of
too
great
exertion
by
the
numbness
of
still
greater
exertion
. At
the
end
of
three
months
he
went
down
a
third
time
to
the
village
with
Joe
. He
forgot
, and
lived
again
, and
, living
,
he
saw
, in
clear
illumination
, the
beast
he
was
making
of
himself—not
by
the
drink
, but
by
the
work
. The
drink
was
an
effect
, not
a
cause
. It
followed
inevitably
upon
the
work
, as
the
night
follows
upon
the
day
.
Not
by
becoming
a
toil-beast
could
he
win
to
the
heights
, was
the
message
the
whiskey
whispered
to
him
, and
he
nodded
approbation
. The
whiskey
was
wise
. It
told
secrets
on
itself
.
He
called
for
paper
and
pencil
, and
for
drinks
all
around
, and
while
they
drank
his
very
good
health
, he
clung
to
the
bar
and
scribbled
.
“A
telegram
, Joe
,”
he
said
. “Read
it
.”
Joe
read
it
with
a
drunken
, quizzical
leer
. But
what
he
read
seemed
to
sober
him
. He
looked
at
the
other
reproachfully
, tears
oozing
into
his
eyes
and
down
his
cheeks
.
“You
ain’t
goin’
back
on
me
, Mart
?”
he
queried
hopelessly
.
Martin
nodded
, and
called
one
of
the
loungers
to
him
to
take
the
message
to
the
telegraph
office
.
“Hold
on
,”
Joe
muttered
thickly
. “Lemme
think
.”
He
held
on
to
the
bar
, his
legs
wobbling
under
him
, Martin’s
arm
around
him
and
supporting
him
, while
he
thought
.
“Make
that
two
laundrymen
,”
he
said
abruptly
. “Here
, lemme
fix
it
.”
“What
are
you
quitting
for
?”
Martin
demanded
.
“Same
reason
as
you
.”
“But
I’m
going
to
sea
. You
can’t
do
that
.”
“Nope
,”
was
the
answer
, “but
I
can
hobo
all
right
, all
right
.”
Martin
looked
at
him
searchingly
for
a
moment
, then
cried
:-
“By
God
, I
think
you’re
right
! Better
a
hobo
than
a
beast
of
toil
. Why
,
man
, you’ll
live
. And
that’s
more
than
you
ever
did
before
.”
“I
was
in
hospital
, once
,”
Joe
corrected
. “It
was
beautiful
.
Typhoid—did
I
tell
you
?”
While
Martin
changed
the
telegram
to
“two
laundrymen
,”
Joe
went
on
:-
“I
never
wanted
to
drink
when
I
was
in
hospital
. Funny
, ain’t
it
? But
when
I’ve
ben
workin’
like
a
slave
all
week
, I
just
got
to
bowl
up
.
Ever
noticed
that
cooks
drink
like
hell
?—an’
bakers
, too
? It’s
the
work
. They’ve
sure
got
to
. Here
, lemme
pay
half
of
that
telegram
.”
“I’ll
shake
you
for
it
,”
Martin
offered
.
“Come
on
, everybody
drink
,”
Joe
called
, as
they
rattled
the
dice
and
rolled
them
out
on
the
damp
bar
.
Monday
morning
Joe
was
wild
with
anticipation
. He
did
not
mind
his
aching
head
, nor
did
he
take
interest
in
his
work
. Whole
herds
of
moments
stole
away
and
were
lost
while
their
careless
shepherd
gazed
out
of
the
window
at
the
sunshine
and
the
trees
.
“Just
look
at
it
!”
he
cried
. “An’
it’s
all
mine
! It’s
free
. I
can
lie
down
under
them
trees
an’
sleep
for
a
thousan’
years
if
I
want
to
. Aw
,
come
on
, Mart
, let’s
chuck
it
. What’s
the
good
of
waitin’
another
moment
. That’s
the
land
of
nothin’
to
do
out
there
, an’
I
got
a
ticket
for
it—an’
it
ain’t
no
return
ticket
, b’gosh
!”
A
few
minutes
later
, filling
the
truck
with
soiled
clothes
for
the
washer
, Joe
spied
the
hotel
manager’s
shirt
. He
knew
its
mark
, and
with
a
sudden
glorious
consciousness
of
freedom
he
threw
it
on
the
floor
and
stamped
on
it
.
“I
wish
you
was
in
it
, you
pig-headed
Dutchman
!”
he
shouted
. “In
it
,
an’
right
there
where
I’ve
got
you
! Take
that
! an’
that
! an’
that
! damn
you
! Hold
me
back
, somebody
! Hold
me
back
!”
Martin
laughed
and
held
him
to
his
work
. On
Tuesday
night
the
new
laundrymen
arrived
, and
the
rest
of
the
week
was
spent
breaking
them
into
the
routine
. Joe
sat
around
and
explained
his
system
, but
he
did
no
more
work
.
“Not
a
tap
,”
he
announced
. “Not
a
tap
. They
can
fire
me
if
they
want
to
, but
if
they
do
, I’ll
quit
. No
more
work
in
mine
, thank
you
kindly
.
Me
for
the
freight
cars
an’
the
shade
under
the
trees
. Go
to
it
, you
slaves
! That’s
right
. Slave
an’
sweat
! Slave
an’
sweat
! An’
when
you’re
dead
, you’ll
rot
the
same
as
me
, an’
what’s
it
matter
how
you
live
?—eh
?
Tell
me
that—what’s
it
matter
in
the
long
run
?”
On
Saturday
they
drew
their
pay
and
came
to
the
parting
of
the
ways
.
“They
ain’t
no
use
in
me
askin’
you
to
change
your
mind
an’
hit
the
road
with
me
?”
Joe
asked
hopelessly
:
Martin
shook
his
head
. He
was
standing
by
his
wheel
, ready
to
start
.
They
shook
hands
, and
Joe
held
on
to
his
for
a
moment
, as
he
said
:-
“I’m
goin’
to
see
you
again
, Mart
, before
you
an’
me
die
. That’s
straight
dope
. I
feel
it
in
my
bones
. Good-by
, Mart
, an’
be
good
. I
like
you
like
hell
, you
know
.”
He
stood
, a
forlorn
figure
, in
the
middle
of
the
road
, watching
until
Martin
turned
a
bend
and
was
gone
from
sight
.
“He’s
a
good
Indian
, that
boy
,”
he
muttered
. “A
good
Indian
.”
Then
he
plodded
down
the
road
himself
, to
the
water
tank
, where
half
a
dozen
empties
lay
on
a
side-track
waiting
for
the
up
freight
.
CHAPTER
XIX
.
Ruth
and
her
family
were
home
again
, and
Martin
, returned
to
Oakland
,
saw
much
of
her
. Having
gained
her
degree
, she
was
doing
no
more
studying
; and
he
, having
worked
all
vitality
out
of
his
mind
and
body
,
was
doing
no
writing
. This
gave
them
time
for
each
other
that
they
had
never
had
before
, and
their
intimacy
ripened
fast
.
At
first
, Martin
had
done
nothing
but
rest
. He
had
slept
a
great
deal
,
and
spent
long
hours
musing
and
thinking
and
doing
nothing
. He
was
like
one
recovering
from
some
terrible
bout
of
hardship
. The
first
signs
of
reawakening
came
when
he
discovered
more
than
languid
interest
in
the
daily
paper
. Then
he
began
to
read
again—light
novels
, and
poetry
; and
after
several
days
more
he
was
head
over
heels
in
his
long-neglected
Fiske
. His
splendid
body
and
health
made
new
vitality
, and
he
possessed
all
the
resiliency
and
rebound
of
youth
.
Ruth
showed
her
disappointment
plainly
when
he
announced
that
he
was
going
to
sea
for
another
voyage
as
soon
as
he
was
well
rested
.
“Why
do
you
want
to
do
that
?”
she
asked
.
“Money
,”
was
the
answer
. “I’ll
have
to
lay
in
a
supply
for
my
next
attack
on
the
editors
. Money
is
the
sinews
of
war
, in
my
case—money
and
patience
.”
“But
if
all
you
wanted
was
money
, why
didn’t
you
stay
in
the
laundry
?”
“Because
the
laundry
was
making
a
beast
of
me
. Too
much
work
of
that
sort
drives
to
drink
.”
She
stared
at
him
with
horror
in
her
eyes
.
“Do
you
mean—
?”
she
quavered
.
It
would
have
been
easy
for
him
to
get
out
of
it
; but
his
natural
impulse
was
for
frankness
, and
he
remembered
his
old
resolve
to
be
frank
, no
matter
what
happened
.
“Yes
,”
he
answered
. “Just
that
. Several
times
.”
She
shivered
and
drew
away
from
him
.
“No
man
that
I
have
ever
known
did
that—ever
did
that
.”
“Then
they
never
worked
in
the
laundry
at
Shelly
Hot
Springs
,”
he
laughed
bitterly
. “Toil
is
a
good
thing
. It
is
necessary
for
human
health
, so
all
the
preachers
say
, and
Heaven
knows
I’ve
never
been
afraid
of
it
. But
there
is
such
a
thing
as
too
much
of
a
good
thing
,
and
the
laundry
up
there
is
one
of
them
. And
that’s
why
I’m
going
to
sea
one
more
voyage
. It
will
be
my
last
, I
think
, for
when
I
come
back
,
I
shall
break
into
the
magazines
. I
am
certain
of
it
.”
She
was
silent
, unsympathetic
, and
he
watched
her
moodily
, realizing
how
impossible
it
was
for
her
to
understand
what
he
had
been
through
.
“Some
day
I
shall
write
it
up—‘The
Degradation
of
Toil’
or
the
‘Psychology
of
Drink
in
the
Working-class
,’
or
something
like
that
for
a
title
.”
Never
, since
the
first
meeting
, had
they
seemed
so
far
apart
as
that
day
. His
confession
, told
in
frankness
, with
the
spirit
of
revolt
behind
, had
repelled
her
. But
she
was
more
shocked
by
the
repulsion
itself
than
by
the
cause
of
it
. It
pointed
out
to
her
how
near
she
had
drawn
to
him
, and
once
accepted
, it
paved
the
way
for
greater
intimacy
.
Pity
, too
, was
aroused
, and
innocent
, idealistic
thoughts
of
reform
.
She
would
save
this
raw
young
man
who
had
come
so
far
. She
would
save
him
from
the
curse
of
his
early
environment
, and
she
would
save
him
from
himself
in
spite
of
himself
. And
all
this
affected
her
as
a
very
noble
state
of
consciousness
; nor
did
she
dream
that
behind
it
and
underlying
it
were
the
jealousy
and
desire
of
love
.
They
rode
on
their
wheels
much
in
the
delightful
fall
weather
, and
out
in
the
hills
they
read
poetry
aloud
, now
one
and
now
the
other
, noble
,
uplifting
poetry
that
turned
one’s
thoughts
to
higher
things
.
Renunciation
, sacrifice
, patience
, industry
, and
high
endeavor
were
the
principles
she
thus
indirectly
preached—such
abstractions
being
objectified
in
her
mind
by
her
father
, and
Mr
. Butler
, and
by
Andrew
Carnegie
, who
, from
a
poor
immigrant
boy
had
arisen
to
be
the
book-giver
of
the
world
. All
of
which
was
appreciated
and
enjoyed
by
Martin
. He
followed
her
mental
processes
more
clearly
now
, and
her
soul
was
no
longer
the
sealed
wonder
it
had
been
. He
was
on
terms
of
intellectual
equality
with
her
. But
the
points
of
disagreement
did
not
affect
his
love
. His
love
was
more
ardent
than
ever
, for
he
loved
her
for
what
she
was
, and
even
her
physical
frailty
was
an
added
charm
in
his
eyes
. He
read
of
sickly
Elizabeth
Barrett
, who
for
years
had
not
placed
her
feet
upon
the
ground
, until
that
day
of
flame
when
she
eloped
with
Browning
and
stood
upright
, upon
the
earth
, under
the
open
sky
; and
what
Browning
had
done
for
her
, Martin
decided
he
could
do
for
Ruth
. But
first
, she
must
love
him
. The
rest
would
be
easy
. He
would
give
her
strength
and
health
. And
he
caught
glimpses
of
their
life
, in
the
years
to
come
, wherein
, against
a
background
of
work
and
comfort
and
general
well-being
, he
saw
himself
and
Ruth
reading
and
discussing
poetry
, she
propped
amid
a
multitude
of
cushions
on
the
ground
while
she
read
aloud
to
him
. This
was
the
key
to
the
life
they
would
live
.
And
always
he
saw
that
particular
picture
. Sometimes
it
was
she
who
leaned
against
him
while
he
read
, one
arm
about
her
, her
head
upon
his
shoulder
. Sometimes
they
pored
together
over
the
printed
pages
of
beauty
. Then
, too
, she
loved
nature
, and
with
generous
imagination
he
changed
the
scene
of
their
reading—sometimes
they
read
in
closed-in
valleys
with
precipitous
walls
, or
in
high
mountain
meadows
, and
,
again
, down
by
the
gray
sand-dunes
with
a
wreath
of
billows
at
their
feet
, or
afar
on
some
volcanic
tropic
isle
where
waterfalls
descended
and
became
mist
, reaching
the
sea
in
vapor
veils
that
swayed
and
shivered
to
every
vagrant
wisp
of
wind
. But
always
, in
the
foreground
,
lords
of
beauty
and
eternally
reading
and
sharing
, lay
he
and
Ruth
, and
always
in
the
background
that
was
beyond
the
background
of
nature
, dim
and
hazy
, were
work
and
success
and
money
earned
that
made
them
free
of
the
world
and
all
its
treasures
.
“I
should
recommend
my
little
girl
to
be
careful
,”
her
mother
warned
her
one
day
.
“I
know
what
you
mean
. But
it
is
impossible
. He
is
not—”
Ruth
was
blushing
, but
it
was
the
blush
of
maidenhood
called
upon
for
the
first
time
to
discuss
the
sacred
things
of
life
with
a
mother
held
equally
sacred
.
“Your
kind
.”
Her
mother
finished
the
sentence
for
her
.
Ruth
nodded
.
“I
did
not
want
to
say
it
, but
he
is
not
. He
is
rough
, brutal
,
strong—too
strong
. He
has
not—”
She
hesitated
and
could
not
go
on
. It
was
a
new
experience
, talking
over
such
matters
with
her
mother
. And
again
her
mother
completed
her
thought
for
her
.
“He
has
not
lived
a
clean
life
, is
what
you
wanted
to
say
.”
Again
Ruth
nodded
, and
again
a
blush
mantled
her
face
.
“It
is
just
that
,”
she
said
. “It
has
not
been
his
fault
, but
he
has
played
much
with—”
“With
pitch
?”
“Yes
, with
pitch
. And
he
frightens
me
. Sometimes
I
am
positively
in
terror
of
him
, when
he
talks
in
that
free
and
easy
way
of
the
things
he
has
done—as
if
they
did
not
matter
. They
do
matter
, don’t
they
?”
They
sat
with
their
arms
twined
around
each
other
, and
in
the
pause
her
mother
patted
her
hand
and
waited
for
her
to
go
on
.
“But
I
am
interested
in
him
dreadfully
,”
she
continued
. “In
a
way
he
is
my
protégé
. Then
, too
, he
is
my
first
boy
friend—but
not
exactly
friend
; rather
protégé
and
friend
combined
. Sometimes
, too
, when
he
frightens
me
, it
seems
that
he
is
a
bulldog
I
have
taken
for
a
plaything
, like
some
of
the
‘frat’
girls
, and
he
is
tugging
hard
, and
showing
his
teeth
, and
threatening
to
break
loose
.”
Again
her
mother
waited
.
“He
interests
me
, I
suppose
, like
the
bulldog
. And
there
is
much
good
in
him
, too
; but
there
is
much
in
him
that
I
would
not
like
in—in
the
other
way
. You
see
, I
have
been
thinking
. He
swears
, he
smokes
, he
drinks
, he
has
fought
with
his
fists
(he
has
told
me
so
, and
he
likes
it
; he
says
so)
. He
is
all
that
a
man
should
not
be—a
man
I
would
want
for
my—”
her
voice
sank
very
low—“husband
. Then
he
is
too
strong
. My
prince
must
be
tall
, and
slender
, and
dark—a
graceful
, bewitching
prince
. No
, there
is
no
danger
of
my
falling
in
love
with
Martin
Eden
.
It
would
be
the
worst
fate
that
could
befall
me
.”
“But
it
is
not
that
that
I
spoke
about
,”
her
mother
equivocated
. “Have
you
thought
about
him
? He
is
so
ineligible
in
every
way
, you
know
, and
suppose
he
should
come
to
love
you
?”
“But
he
does—already
,”
she
cried
.
“It
was
to
be
expected
,”
Mrs
. Morse
said
gently
. “How
could
it
be
otherwise
with
any
one
who
knew
you
?”
“Olney
hates
me
!”
she
exclaimed
passionately
. “And
I
hate
Olney
. I
feel
always
like
a
cat
when
he
is
around
. I
feel
that
I
must
be
nasty
to
him
, and
even
when
I
don’t
happen
to
feel
that
way
, why
, he’s
nasty
to
me
, anyway
. But
I
am
happy
with
Martin
Eden
. No
one
ever
loved
me
before—no
man
, I
mean
, in
that
way
. And
it
is
sweet
to
be
loved—that
way
. You
know
what
I
mean
, mother
dear
. It
is
sweet
to
feel
that
you
are
really
and
truly
a
woman
.”
She
buried
her
face
in
her
mother’s
lap
,
sobbing
. “You
think
I
am
dreadful
, I
know
, but
I
am
honest
, and
I
tell
you
just
how
I
feel
.”
Mrs
. Morse
was
strangely
sad
and
happy
. Her
child-daughter
, who
was
a
bachelor
of
arts
, was
gone
; but
in
her
place
was
a
woman-daughter
. The
experiment
had
succeeded
. The
strange
void
in
Ruth’s
nature
had
been
filled
, and
filled
without
danger
or
penalty
. This
rough
sailor-fellow
had
been
the
instrument
, and
, though
Ruth
did
not
love
him
, he
had
made
her
conscious
of
her
womanhood
.
“His
hand
trembles
,”
Ruth
was
confessing
, her
face
, for
shame’s
sake
,
still
buried
. “It
is
most
amusing
and
ridiculous
, but
I
feel
sorry
for
him
, too
. And
when
his
hands
are
too
trembly
, and
his
eyes
too
shiny
,
why
, I
lecture
him
about
his
life
and
the
wrong
way
he
is
going
about
it
to
mend
it
. But
he
worships
me
, I
know
. His
eyes
and
his
hands
do
not
lie
. And
it
makes
me
feel
grown-up
, the
thought
of
it
, the
very
thought
of
it
; and
I
feel
that
I
am
possessed
of
something
that
is
by
rights
my
own—that
makes
me
like
the
other
girls—and—and
young
women
.
And
, then
, too
, I
knew
that
I
was
not
like
them
before
, and
I
knew
that
it
worried
you
. You
thought
you
did
not
let
me
know
that
dear
worry
of
yours
, but
I
did
, and
I
wanted
to—‘to
make
good
,’
as
Martin
Eden
says
.”
It
was
a
holy
hour
for
mother
and
daughter
, and
their
eyes
were
wet
as
they
talked
on
in
the
twilight
, Ruth
all
white
innocence
and
frankness
,
her
mother
sympathetic
, receptive
, yet
calmly
explaining
and
guiding
.
“He
is
four
years
younger
than
you
,”
she
said
. “He
has
no
place
in
the
world
. He
has
neither
position
nor
salary
. He
is
impractical
. Loving
you
, he
should
, in
the
name
of
common
sense
, be
doing
something
that
would
give
him
the
right
to
marry
, instead
of
paltering
around
with
those
stories
of
his
and
with
childish
dreams
. Martin
Eden
, I
am
afraid
, will
never
grow
up
. He
does
not
take
to
responsibility
and
a
man’s
work
in
the
world
like
your
father
did
, or
like
all
our
friends
,
Mr
. Butler
for
one
. Martin
Eden
, I
am
afraid
, will
never
be
a
money-earner
. And
this
world
is
so
ordered
that
money
is
necessary
to
happiness—oh
, no
, not
these
swollen
fortunes
, but
enough
of
money
to
permit
of
common
comfort
and
decency
. He—he
has
never
spoken
?”
“He
has
not
breathed
a
word
. He
has
not
attempted
to
; but
if
he
did
, I
would
not
let
him
, because
, you
see
, I
do
not
love
him
.”
“I
am
glad
of
that
. I
should
not
care
to
see
my
daughter
, my
one
daughter
, who
is
so
clean
and
pure
, love
a
man
like
him
. There
are
noble
men
in
the
world
who
are
clean
and
true
and
manly
. Wait
for
them
.
You
will
find
one
some
day
, and
you
will
love
him
and
be
loved
by
him
,
and
you
will
be
happy
with
him
as
your
father
and
I
have
been
happy
with
each
other
. And
there
is
one
thing
you
must
always
carry
in
mind—”
“Yes
, mother
.”
Mrs
. Morse’s
voice
was
low
and
sweet
as
she
said
, “And
that
is
the
children
.”
“I—have
thought
about
them
,”
Ruth
confessed
, remembering
the
wanton
thoughts
that
had
vexed
her
in
the
past
, her
face
again
red
with
maiden
shame
that
she
should
be
telling
such
things
.
“And
it
is
that
, the
children
, that
makes
Mr
. Eden
impossible
,”
Mrs
.
Morse
went
on
incisively
. “Their
heritage
must
be
clean
, and
he
is
, I
am
afraid
, not
clean
. Your
father
has
told
me
of
sailors’
lives
,
and—and
you
understand
.”
Ruth
pressed
her
mother’s
hand
in
assent
, feeling
that
she
really
did
understand
, though
her
conception
was
of
something
vague
, remote
, and
terrible
that
was
beyond
the
scope
of
imagination
.
“You
know
I
do
nothing
without
telling
you
,”
she
began
. “—Only
,
sometimes
you
must
ask
me
, like
this
time
. I
wanted
to
tell
you
, but
I
did
not
know
how
. It
is
false
modesty
, I
know
it
is
that
, but
you
can
make
it
easy
for
me
. Sometimes
, like
this
time
, you
must
ask
me
, you
must
give
me
a
chance
.”
“Why
, mother
, you
are
a
woman
, too
!”
she
cried
exultantly
, as
they
stood
up
, catching
her
mother’s
hands
and
standing
erect
, facing
her
in
the
twilight
, conscious
of
a
strangely
sweet
equality
between
them
. “I
should
never
have
thought
of
you
in
that
way
if
we
had
not
had
this
talk
. I
had
to
learn
that
I
was
a
woman
to
know
that
you
were
one
,
too
.”
“We
are
women
together
,”
her
mother
said
, drawing
her
to
her
and
kissing
her
. “We
are
women
together
,”
she
repeated
, as
they
went
out
of
the
room
, their
arms
around
each
other’s
waists
, their
hearts
swelling
with
a
new
sense
of
companionship
.
“Our
little
girl
has
become
a
woman
,”
Mrs
. Morse
said
proudly
to
her
husband
an
hour
later
.
“That
means
,”
he
said
, after
a
long
look
at
his
wife
, “that
means
she
is
in
love
.”
“No
, but
that
she
is
loved
,”
was
the
smiling
rejoinder
. “The
experiment
has
succeeded
. She
is
awakened
at
last
.”
“Then
we’ll
have
to
get
rid
of
him
.”
Mr
. Morse
spoke
briskly
, in
matter-of-fact
, businesslike
tones
.
But
his
wife
shook
her
head
. “It
will
not
be
necessary
. Ruth
says
he
is
going
to
sea
in
a
few
days
. When
he
comes
back
, she
will
not
be
here
.
We
will
send
her
to
Aunt
Clara’s
. And
, besides
, a
year
in
the
East
,
with
the
change
in
climate
, people
, ideas
, and
everything
, is
just
the
thing
she
needs
.”
CHAPTER
XX
.
The
desire
to
write
was
stirring
in
Martin
once
more
. Stories
and
poems
were
springing
into
spontaneous
creation
in
his
brain
, and
he
made
notes
of
them
against
the
future
time
when
he
would
give
them
expression
. But
he
did
not
write
. This
was
his
little
vacation
; he
had
resolved
to
devote
it
to
rest
and
love
, and
in
both
matters
he
prospered
. He
was
soon
spilling
over
with
vitality
, and
each
day
he
saw
Ruth
, at
the
moment
of
meeting
, she
experienced
the
old
shock
of
his
strength
and
health
.
“Be
careful
,”
her
mother
warned
her
once
again
. “I
am
afraid
you
are
seeing
too
much
of
Martin
Eden
.”
But
Ruth
laughed
from
security
. She
was
sure
of
herself
, and
in
a
few
days
he
would
be
off
to
sea
. Then
, by
the
time
he
returned
, she
would
be
away
on
her
visit
East
. There
was
a
magic
, however
, in
the
strength
and
health
of
Martin
. He
, too
, had
been
told
of
her
contemplated
Eastern
trip
, and
he
felt
the
need
for
haste
. Yet
he
did
not
know
how
to
make
love
to
a
girl
like
Ruth
. Then
, too
, he
was
handicapped
by
the
possession
of
a
great
fund
of
experience
with
girls
and
women
who
had
been
absolutely
different
from
her
. They
had
known
about
love
and
life
and
flirtation
, while
she
knew
nothing
about
such
things
. Her
prodigious
innocence
appalled
him
, freezing
on
his
lips
all
ardors
of
speech
, and
convincing
him
, in
spite
of
himself
, of
his
own
unworthiness
. Also
he
was
handicapped
in
another
way
. He
had
himself
never
been
in
love
before
. He
had
liked
women
in
that
turgid
past
of
his
, and
been
fascinated
by
some
of
them
, but
he
had
not
known
what
it
was
to
love
them
. He
had
whistled
in
a
masterful
, careless
way
, and
they
had
come
to
him
. They
had
been
diversions
, incidents
, part
of
the
game
men
play
, but
a
small
part
at
most
. And
now
, and
for
the
first
time
, he
was
a
suppliant
, tender
and
timid
and
doubting
. He
did
not
know
the
way
of
love
, nor
its
speech
, while
he
was
frightened
at
his
loved
one’s
clear
innocence
.
In
the
course
of
getting
acquainted
with
a
varied
world
, whirling
on
through
the
ever
changing
phases
of
it
, he
had
learned
a
rule
of
conduct
which
was
to
the
effect
that
when
one
played
a
strange
game
, he
should
let
the
other
fellow
play
first
. This
had
stood
him
in
good
stead
a
thousand
times
and
trained
him
as
an
observer
as
well
. He
knew
how
to
watch
the
thing
that
was
strange
, and
to
wait
for
a
weakness
,
for
a
place
of
entrance
, to
divulge
itself
. It
was
like
sparring
for
an
opening
in
fist-fighting
. And
when
such
an
opening
came
, he
knew
by
long
experience
to
play
for
it
and
to
play
hard
.
So
he
waited
with
Ruth
and
watched
, desiring
to
speak
his
love
but
not
daring
. He
was
afraid
of
shocking
her
, and
he
was
not
sure
of
himself
.
Had
he
but
known
it
, he
was
following
the
right
course
with
her
. Love
came
into
the
world
before
articulate
speech
, and
in
its
own
early
youth
it
had
learned
ways
and
means
that
it
had
never
forgotten
. It
was
in
this
old
, primitive
way
that
Martin
wooed
Ruth
. He
did
not
know
he
was
doing
it
at
first
, though
later
he
divined
it
. The
touch
of
his
hand
on
hers
was
vastly
more
potent
than
any
word
he
could
utter
, the
impact
of
his
strength
on
her
imagination
was
more
alluring
than
the
printed
poems
and
spoken
passions
of
a
thousand
generations
of
lovers
.
Whatever
his
tongue
could
express
would
have
appealed
, in
part
, to
her
judgment
; but
the
touch
of
hand
, the
fleeting
contact
, made
its
way
directly
to
her
instinct
. Her
judgment
was
as
young
as
she
, but
her
instincts
were
as
old
as
the
race
and
older
. They
had
been
young
when
love
was
young
, and
they
were
wiser
than
convention
and
opinion
and
all
the
new-born
things
. So
her
judgment
did
not
act
. There
was
no
call
upon
it
, and
she
did
not
realize
the
strength
of
the
appeal
Martin
made
from
moment
to
moment
to
her
love-nature
. That
he
loved
her
, on
the
other
hand
, was
as
clear
as
day
, and
she
consciously
delighted
in
beholding
his
love-manifestations—the
glowing
eyes
with
their
tender
lights
, the
trembling
hands
, and
the
never
failing
swarthy
flush
that
flooded
darkly
under
his
sunburn
. She
even
went
farther
, in
a
timid
way
inciting
him
, but
doing
it
so
delicately
that
he
never
suspected
, and
doing
it
half-consciously
, so
that
she
scarcely
suspected
herself
. She
thrilled
with
these
proofs
of
her
power
that
proclaimed
her
a
woman
,
and
she
took
an
Eve-like
delight
in
tormenting
him
and
playing
upon
him
.
Tongue-tied
by
inexperience
and
by
excess
of
ardor
, wooing
unwittingly
and
awkwardly
, Martin
continued
his
approach
by
contact
. The
touch
of
his
hand
was
pleasant
to
her
, and
something
deliciously
more
than
pleasant
. Martin
did
not
know
it
, but
he
did
know
that
it
was
not
distasteful
to
her
. Not
that
they
touched
hands
often
, save
at
meeting
and
parting
; but
that
in
handling
the
bicycles
, in
strapping
on
the
books
of
verse
they
carried
into
the
hills
, and
in
conning
the
pages
of
books
side
by
side
, there
were
opportunities
for
hand
to
stray
against
hand
. And
there
were
opportunities
, too
, for
her
hair
to
brush
his
cheek
, and
for
shoulder
to
touch
shoulder
, as
they
leaned
together
over
the
beauty
of
the
books
. She
smiled
to
herself
at
vagrant
impulses
which
arose
from
nowhere
and
suggested
that
she
rumple
his
hair
; while
he
desired
greatly
, when
they
tired
of
reading
, to
rest
his
head
in
her
lap
and
dream
with
closed
eyes
about
the
future
that
was
to
be
theirs
.
On
Sunday
picnics
at
Shellmound
Park
and
Schuetzen
Park
, in
the
past
,
he
had
rested
his
head
on
many
laps
, and
, usually
, he
had
slept
soundly
and
selfishly
while
the
girls
shaded
his
face
from
the
sun
and
looked
down
and
loved
him
and
wondered
at
his
lordly
carelessness
of
their
love
. To
rest
his
head
in
a
girl’s
lap
had
been
the
easiest
thing
in
the
world
until
now
, and
now
he
found
Ruth’s
lap
inaccessible
and
impossible
. Yet
it
was
right
here
, in
his
reticence
, that
the
strength
of
his
wooing
lay
. It
was
because
of
this
reticence
that
he
never
alarmed
her
. Herself
fastidious
and
timid
, she
never
awakened
to
the
perilous
trend
of
their
intercourse
. Subtly
and
unaware
she
grew
toward
him
and
closer
to
him
, while
he
, sensing
the
growing
closeness
, longed
to
dare
but
was
afraid
.
Once
he
dared
, one
afternoon
, when
he
found
her
in
the
darkened
living
room
with
a
blinding
headache
.
“Nothing
can
do
it
any
good
,”
she
had
answered
his
inquiries
. “And
besides
, I
don’t
take
headache
powders
. Doctor
Hall
won’t
permit
me
.”
“I
can
cure
it
, I
think
, and
without
drugs
,”
was
Martin’s
answer
. “I
am
not
sure
, of
course
, but
I’d
like
to
try
. It’s
simply
massage
. I
learned
the
trick
first
from
the
Japanese
. They
are
a
race
of
masseurs
,
you
know
. Then
I
learned
it
all
over
again
with
variations
from
the
Hawaiians
. They
call
it
_lomi-lomi_
. It
can
accomplish
most
of
the
things
drugs
accomplish
and
a
few
things
that
drugs
can’t
.”
Scarcely
had
his
hands
touched
her
head
when
she
sighed
deeply
.
“That
is
so
good
,”
she
said
.
She
spoke
once
again
, half
an
hour
later
, when
she
asked
, “Aren’t
you
tired
?”
The
question
was
perfunctory
, and
she
knew
what
the
answer
would
be
.
Then
she
lost
herself
in
drowsy
contemplation
of
the
soothing
balm
of
his
strength
: Life
poured
from
the
ends
of
his
fingers
, driving
the
pain
before
it
, or
so
it
seemed
to
her
, until
with
the
easement
of
pain
, she
fell
asleep
and
he
stole
away
.
She
called
him
up
by
telephone
that
evening
to
thank
him
.
“I
slept
until
dinner
,”
she
said
. “You
cured
me
completely
, Mr
. Eden
,
and
I
don’t
know
how
to
thank
you
.”
He
was
warm
, and
bungling
of
speech
, and
very
happy
, as
he
replied
to
her
, and
there
was
dancing
in
his
mind
, throughout
the
telephone
conversation
, the
memory
of
Browning
and
of
sickly
Elizabeth
Barrett
.
What
had
been
done
could
be
done
again
, and
he
, Martin
Eden
, could
do
it
and
would
do
it
for
Ruth
Morse
. He
went
back
to
his
room
and
to
the
volume
of
Spencer’s
“Sociology”
lying
open
on
the
bed
. But
he
could
not
read
. Love
tormented
him
and
overrode
his
will
, so
that
, despite
all
determination
, he
found
himself
at
the
little
ink-stained
table
. The
sonnet
he
composed
that
night
was
the
first
of
a
love-cycle
of
fifty
sonnets
which
was
completed
within
two
months
. He
had
the
“Love-sonnets
from
the
Portuguese”
in
mind
as
he
wrote
, and
he
wrote
under
the
best
conditions
for
great
work
, at
a
climacteric
of
living
, in
the
throes
of
his
own
sweet
love-madness
.
The
many
hours
he
was
not
with
Ruth
he
devoted
to
the
“Love-cycle
,”
to
reading
at
home
, or
to
the
public
reading-rooms
, where
he
got
more
closely
in
touch
with
the
magazines
of
the
day
and
the
nature
of
their
policy
and
content
. The
hours
he
spent
with
Ruth
were
maddening
alike
in
promise
and
in
inconclusiveness
. It
was
a
week
after
he
cured
her
headache
that
a
moonlight
sail
on
Lake
Merritt
was
proposed
by
Norman
and
seconded
by
Arthur
and
Olney
. Martin
was
the
only
one
capable
of
handling
a
boat
, and
he
was
pressed
into
service
. Ruth
sat
near
him
in
the
stern
, while
the
three
young
fellows
lounged
amidships
, deep
in
a
wordy
wrangle
over
“frat”
affairs
.
The
moon
had
not
yet
risen
, and
Ruth
, gazing
into
the
starry
vault
of
the
sky
and
exchanging
no
speech
with
Martin
, experienced
a
sudden
feeling
of
loneliness
. She
glanced
at
him
. A
puff
of
wind
was
heeling
the
boat
over
till
the
deck
was
awash
, and
he
, one
hand
on
tiller
and
the
other
on
main-sheet
, was
luffing
slightly
, at
the
same
time
peering
ahead
to
make
out
the
near-lying
north
shore
. He
was
unaware
of
her
gaze
, and
she
watched
him
intently
, speculating
fancifully
about
the
strange
warp
of
soul
that
led
him
, a
young
man
with
signal
powers
, to
fritter
away
his
time
on
the
writing
of
stories
and
poems
foredoomed
to
mediocrity
and
failure
.
Her
eyes
wandered
along
the
strong
throat
, dimly
seen
in
the
starlight
,
and
over
the
firm-poised
head
, and
the
old
desire
to
lay
her
hands
upon
his
neck
came
back
to
her
. The
strength
she
abhorred
attracted
her
. Her
feeling
of
loneliness
became
more
pronounced
, and
she
felt
tired
. Her
position
on
the
heeling
boat
irked
her
, and
she
remembered
the
headache
he
had
cured
and
the
soothing
rest
that
resided
in
him
. He
was
sitting
beside
her
, quite
beside
her
, and
the
boat
seemed
to
tilt
her
toward
him
. Then
arose
in
her
the
impulse
to
lean
against
him
, to
rest
herself
against
his
strength—a
vague
, half-formed
impulse
, which
, even
as
she
considered
it
, mastered
her
and
made
her
lean
toward
him
. Or
was
it
the
heeling
of
the
boat
? She
did
not
know
. She
never
knew
. She
knew
only
that
she
was
leaning
against
him
and
that
the
easement
and
soothing
rest
were
very
good
. Perhaps
it
had
been
the
boat’s
fault
, but
she
made
no
effort
to
retrieve
it
. She
leaned
lightly
against
his
shoulder
, but
she
leaned
, and
she
continued
to
lean
when
he
shifted
his
position
to
make
it
more
comfortable
for
her
.
It
was
a
madness
, but
she
refused
to
consider
the
madness
. She
was
no
longer
herself
but
a
woman
, with
a
woman’s
clinging
need
; and
though
she
leaned
ever
so
lightly
, the
need
seemed
satisfied
. She
was
no
longer
tired
. Martin
did
not
speak
. Had
he
, the
spell
would
have
been
broken
. But
his
reticence
of
love
prolonged
it
. He
was
dazed
and
dizzy
.
He
could
not
understand
what
was
happening
. It
was
too
wonderful
to
be
anything
but
a
delirium
. He
conquered
a
mad
desire
to
let
go
sheet
and
tiller
and
to
clasp
her
in
his
arms
. His
intuition
told
him
it
was
the
wrong
thing
to
do
, and
he
was
glad
that
sheet
and
tiller
kept
his
hands
occupied
and
fended
off
temptation
. But
he
luffed
the
boat
less
delicately
, spilling
the
wind
shamelessly
from
the
sail
so
as
to
prolong
the
tack
to
the
north
shore
. The
shore
would
compel
him
to
go
about
, and
the
contact
would
be
broken
. He
sailed
with
skill
, stopping
way
on
the
boat
without
exciting
the
notice
of
the
wranglers
, and
mentally
forgiving
his
hardest
voyages
in
that
they
had
made
this
marvellous
night
possible
, giving
him
mastery
over
sea
and
boat
and
wind
so
that
he
could
sail
with
her
beside
him
, her
dear
weight
against
him
on
his
shoulder
.
When
the
first
light
of
the
rising
moon
touched
the
sail
, illuminating
the
boat
with
pearly
radiance
, Ruth
moved
away
from
him
. And
, even
as
she
moved
, she
felt
him
move
away
. The
impulse
to
avoid
detection
was
mutual
. The
episode
was
tacitly
and
secretly
intimate
. She
sat
apart
from
him
with
burning
cheeks
, while
the
full
force
of
it
came
home
to
her
. She
had
been
guilty
of
something
she
would
not
have
her
brothers
see
, nor
Olney
see
. Why
had
she
done
it
? She
had
never
done
anything
like
it
in
her
life
, and
yet
she
had
been
moonlight-sailing
with
young
men
before
. She
had
never
desired
to
do
anything
like
it
. She
was
overcome
with
shame
and
with
the
mystery
of
her
own
burgeoning
womanhood
. She
stole
a
glance
at
Martin
, who
was
busy
putting
the
boat
about
on
the
other
tack
, and
she
could
have
hated
him
for
having
made
her
do
an
immodest
and
shameful
thing
. And
he
, of
all
men
! Perhaps
her
mother
was
right
, and
she
was
seeing
too
much
of
him
. It
would
never
happen
again
, she
resolved
, and
she
would
see
less
of
him
in
the
future
. She
entertained
a
wild
idea
of
explaining
to
him
the
first
time
they
were
alone
together
, of
lying
to
him
, of
mentioning
casually
the
attack
of
faintness
that
had
overpowered
her
just
before
the
moon
came
up
. Then
she
remembered
how
they
had
drawn
mutually
away
before
the
revealing
moon
, and
she
knew
he
would
know
it
for
a
lie
.
In
the
days
that
swiftly
followed
she
was
no
longer
herself
but
a
strange
, puzzling
creature
, wilful
over
judgment
and
scornful
of
self-analysis
, refusing
to
peer
into
the
future
or
to
think
about
herself
and
whither
she
was
drifting
. She
was
in
a
fever
of
tingling
mystery
, alternately
frightened
and
charmed
, and
in
constant
bewilderment
. She
had
one
idea
firmly
fixed
, however
, which
insured
her
security
. She
would
not
let
Martin
speak
his
love
. As
long
as
she
did
this
, all
would
be
well
. In
a
few
days
he
would
be
off
to
sea
. And
even
if
he
did
speak
, all
would
be
well
. It
could
not
be
otherwise
, for
she
did
not
love
him
. Of
course
, it
would
be
a
painful
half
hour
for
him
,
and
an
embarrassing
half
hour
for
her
, because
it
would
be
her
first
proposal
. She
thrilled
deliciously
at
the
thought
. She
was
really
a
woman
, with
a
man
ripe
to
ask
for
her
in
marriage
. It
was
a
lure
to
all
that
was
fundamental
in
her
sex
. The
fabric
of
her
life
, of
all
that
constituted
her
, quivered
and
grew
tremulous
. The
thought
fluttered
in
her
mind
like
a
flame-attracted
moth
. She
went
so
far
as
to
imagine
Martin
proposing
, herself
putting
the
words
into
his
mouth
; and
she
rehearsed
her
refusal
, tempering
it
with
kindness
and
exhorting
him
to
true
and
noble
manhood
. And
especially
he
must
stop
smoking
cigarettes
.
She
would
make
a
point
of
that
. But
no
, she
must
not
let
him
speak
at
all
. She
could
stop
him
, and
she
had
told
her
mother
that
she
would
.
All
flushed
and
burning
, she
regretfully
dismissed
the
conjured
situation
. Her
first
proposal
would
have
to
be
deferred
to
a
more
propitious
time
and
a
more
eligible
suitor
.
CHAPTER
XXI
.
Came
a
beautiful
fall
day
, warm
and
languid
, palpitant
with
the
hush
of
the
changing
season
, a
California
Indian
summer
day
, with
hazy
sun
and
wandering
wisps
of
breeze
that
did
not
stir
the
slumber
of
the
air
.
Filmy
purple
mists
, that
were
not
vapors
but
fabrics
woven
of
color
,
hid
in
the
recesses
of
the
hills
. San
Francisco
lay
like
a
blur
of
smoke
upon
her
heights
. The
intervening
bay
was
a
dull
sheen
of
molten
metal
, whereon
sailing
craft
lay
motionless
or
drifted
with
the
lazy
tide
. Far
Tamalpais
, barely
seen
in
the
silver
haze
, bulked
hugely
by
the
Golden
Gate
, the
latter
a
pale
gold
pathway
under
the
westering
sun
. Beyond
, the
Pacific
, dim
and
vast
, was
raising
on
its
sky-line
tumbled
cloud-masses
that
swept
landward
, giving
warning
of
the
first
blustering
breath
of
winter
.
The
erasure
of
summer
was
at
hand
. Yet
summer
lingered
, fading
and
fainting
among
her
hills
, deepening
the
purple
of
her
valleys
, spinning
a
shroud
of
haze
from
waning
powers
and
sated
raptures
, dying
with
the
calm
content
of
having
lived
and
lived
well
. And
among
the
hills
, on
their
favorite
knoll
, Martin
and
Ruth
sat
side
by
side
, their
heads
bent
over
the
same
pages
, he
reading
aloud
from
the
love-sonnets
of
the
woman
who
had
loved
Browning
as
it
is
given
to
few
men
to
be
loved
.
But
the
reading
languished
. The
spell
of
passing
beauty
all
about
them
was
too
strong
. The
golden
year
was
dying
as
it
had
lived
, a
beautiful
and
unrepentant
voluptuary
, and
reminiscent
rapture
and
content
freighted
heavily
the
air
. It
entered
into
them
, dreamy
and
languorous
,
weakening
the
fibres
of
resolution
, suffusing
the
face
of
morality
, or
of
judgment
, with
haze
and
purple
mist
. Martin
felt
tender
and
melting
,
and
from
time
to
time
warm
glows
passed
over
him
. His
head
was
very
near
to
hers
, and
when
wandering
phantoms
of
breeze
stirred
her
hair
so
that
it
touched
his
face
, the
printed
pages
swam
before
his
eyes
.
“I
don’t
believe
you
know
a
word
of
what
you
are
reading
,”
she
said
once
when
he
had
lost
his
place
.
He
looked
at
her
with
burning
eyes
, and
was
on
the
verge
of
becoming
awkward
, when
a
retort
came
to
his
lips
.
“I
don’t
believe
you
know
either
. What
was
the
last
sonnet
about
?”
“I
don’t
know
,”
she
laughed
frankly
. “I’ve
already
forgotten
. Don’t
let
us
read
any
more
. The
day
is
too
beautiful
.”
“It
will
be
our
last
in
the
hills
for
some
time
,”
he
announced
gravely
.
“There’s
a
storm
gathering
out
there
on
the
sea-rim
.”
The
book
slipped
from
his
hands
to
the
ground
, and
they
sat
idly
and
silently
, gazing
out
over
the
dreamy
bay
with
eyes
that
dreamed
and
did
not
see
. Ruth
glanced
sidewise
at
his
neck
. She
did
not
lean
toward
him
. She
was
drawn
by
some
force
outside
of
herself
and
stronger
than
gravitation
, strong
as
destiny
. It
was
only
an
inch
to
lean
, and
it
was
accomplished
without
volition
on
her
part
. Her
shoulder
touched
his
as
lightly
as
a
butterfly
touches
a
flower
, and
just
as
lightly
was
the
counter-pressure
. She
felt
his
shoulder
press
hers
, and
a
tremor
run
through
him
. Then
was
the
time
for
her
to
draw
back
. But
she
had
become
an
automaton
. Her
actions
had
passed
beyond
the
control
of
her
will—she
never
thought
of
control
or
will
in
the
delicious
madness
that
was
upon
her
. His
arm
began
to
steal
behind
her
and
around
her
. She
waited
its
slow
progress
in
a
torment
of
delight
. She
waited
, she
knew
not
for
what
, panting
, with
dry
, burning
lips
, a
leaping
pulse
, and
a
fever
of
expectancy
in
all
her
blood
. The
girdling
arm
lifted
higher
and
drew
her
toward
him
, drew
her
slowly
and
caressingly
. She
could
wait
no
longer
. With
a
tired
sigh
, and
with
an
impulsive
movement
all
her
own
,
unpremeditated
, spasmodic
, she
rested
her
head
upon
his
breast
. His
head
bent
over
swiftly
, and
, as
his
lips
approached
, hers
flew
to
meet
them
.
This
must
be
love
, she
thought
, in
the
one
rational
moment
that
was
vouchsafed
her
. If
it
was
not
love
, it
was
too
shameful
. It
could
be
nothing
else
than
love
. She
loved
the
man
whose
arms
were
around
her
and
whose
lips
were
pressed
to
hers
. She
pressed
more
tightly
to
him
,
with
a
snuggling
movement
of
her
body
. And
a
moment
later
, tearing
herself
half
out
of
his
embrace
, suddenly
and
exultantly
she
reached
up
and
placed
both
hands
upon
Martin
Eden’s
sunburnt
neck
. So
exquisite
was
the
pang
of
love
and
desire
fulfilled
that
she
uttered
a
low
moan
,
relaxed
her
hands
, and
lay
half-swooning
in
his
arms
.
Not
a
word
had
been
spoken
, and
not
a
word
was
spoken
for
a
long
time
.
Twice
he
bent
and
kissed
her
, and
each
time
her
lips
met
his
shyly
and
her
body
made
its
happy
, nestling
movement
. She
clung
to
him
, unable
to
release
herself
, and
he
sat
, half
supporting
her
in
his
arms
, as
he
gazed
with
unseeing
eyes
at
the
blur
of
the
great
city
across
the
bay
.
For
once
there
were
no
visions
in
his
brain
. Only
colors
and
lights
and
glows
pulsed
there
, warm
as
the
day
and
warm
as
his
love
. He
bent
over
her
. She
was
speaking
.
“When
did
you
love
me
?”
she
whispered
.
“From
the
first
, the
very
first
, the
first
moment
I
laid
eye
on
you
. I
was
mad
for
love
of
you
then
, and
in
all
the
time
that
has
passed
since
then
I
have
only
grown
the
madder
. I
am
maddest
, now
, dear
. I
am
almost
a
lunatic
, my
head
is
so
turned
with
joy
.”
“I
am
glad
I
am
a
woman
, Martin—dear
,”
she
said
, after
a
long
sigh
.
He
crushed
her
in
his
arms
again
and
again
, and
then
asked
:-
“And
you
? When
did
you
first
know
?”
“Oh
, I
knew
it
all
the
time
, almost
, from
the
first
.”
“And
I
have
been
as
blind
as
a
bat
!”
he
cried
, a
ring
of
vexation
in
his
voice
. “I
never
dreamed
it
until
just
how
, when
I—when
I
kissed
you
.”
“I
didn’t
mean
that
.”
She
drew
herself
partly
away
and
looked
at
him
.
“I
meant
I
knew
you
loved
almost
from
the
first
.”
“And
you
?”
he
demanded
.
“It
came
to
me
suddenly
.”
She
was
speaking
very
slowly
, her
eyes
warm
and
fluttery
and
melting
, a
soft
flush
on
her
cheeks
that
did
not
go
away
. “I
never
knew
until
just
now
when—you
put
your
arms
around
me
.
And
I
never
expected
to
marry
you
, Martin
, not
until
just
now
. How
did
you
make
me
love
you
?”
“I
don’t
know
,”
he
laughed
, “unless
just
by
loving
you
, for
I
loved
you
hard
enough
to
melt
the
heart
of
a
stone
, much
less
the
heart
of
the
living
, breathing
woman
you
are
.”
“This
is
so
different
from
what
I
thought
love
would
be
,”
she
announced
irrelevantly
.
“What
did
you
think
it
would
be
like
?”
“I
didn’t
think
it
would
be
like
this
.”
She
was
looking
into
his
eyes
at
the
moment
, but
her
own
dropped
as
she
continued
, “You
see
, I
didn’t
know
what
this
was
like
.”
He
offered
to
draw
her
toward
him
again
, but
it
was
no
more
than
a
tentative
muscular
movement
of
the
girdling
arm
, for
he
feared
that
he
might
be
greedy
. Then
he
felt
her
body
yielding
, and
once
again
she
was
close
in
his
arms
and
lips
were
pressed
on
lips
.
“What
will
my
people
say
?”
she
queried
, with
sudden
apprehension
, in
one
of
the
pauses
.
“I
don’t
know
. We
can
find
out
very
easily
any
time
we
are
so
minded
.”
“But
if
mamma
objects
? I
am
sure
I
am
afraid
to
tell
her
.”
“Let
me
tell
her
,”
he
volunteered
valiantly
. “I
think
your
mother
does
not
like
me
, but
I
can
win
her
around
. A
fellow
who
can
win
you
can
win
anything
. And
if
we
don’t—”
“Yes
?”
“Why
, we’ll
have
each
other
. But
there’s
no
danger
not
winning
your
mother
to
our
marriage
. She
loves
you
too
well
.”
“I
should
not
like
to
break
her
heart
,”
Ruth
said
pensively
.
He
felt
like
assuring
her
that
mothers’
hearts
were
not
so
easily
broken
, but
instead
he
said
, “And
love
is
the
greatest
thing
in
the
world
.”
“Do
you
know
, Martin
, you
sometimes
frighten
me
. I
am
frightened
now
,
when
I
think
of
you
and
of
what
you
have
been
. You
must
be
very
, very
good
to
me
. Remember
, after
all
, that
I
am
only
a
child
. I
never
loved
before
.”
“Nor
I
. We
are
both
children
together
. And
we
are
fortunate
above
most
,
for
we
have
found
our
first
love
in
each
other
.”
“But
that
is
impossible
!”
she
cried
, withdrawing
herself
from
his
arms
with
a
swift
, passionate
movement
. “Impossible
for
you
. You
have
been
a
sailor
, and
sailors
, I
have
heard
, are—are—”
Her
voice
faltered
and
died
away
.
“Are
addicted
to
having
a
wife
in
every
port
?”
he
suggested
. “Is
that
what
you
mean
?”
“Yes
,”
she
answered
in
a
low
voice
.
“But
that
is
not
love
.”
He
spoke
authoritatively
. “I
have
been
in
many
ports
, but
I
never
knew
a
passing
touch
of
love
until
I
saw
you
that
first
night
. Do
you
know
, when
I
said
good
night
and
went
away
, I
was
almost
arrested
.”
“Arrested
?”
“Yes
. The
policeman
thought
I
was
drunk
; and
I
was
, too—with
love
for
you
.”
“But
you
said
we
were
children
, and
I
said
it
was
impossible
, for
you
,
and
we
have
strayed
away
from
the
point
.”
“I
said
that
I
never
loved
anybody
but
you
,”
he
replied
. “You
are
my
first
, my
very
first
.”
“And
yet
you
have
been
a
sailor
,”
she
objected
.
“But
that
doesn’t
prevent
me
from
loving
you
the
first
.”
“And
there
have
been
women—other
women—oh
!”
And
to
Martin
Eden’s
supreme
surprise
, she
burst
into
a
storm
of
tears
that
took
more
kisses
than
one
and
many
caresses
to
drive
away
. And
all
the
while
there
was
running
through
his
head
Kipling’s
line
: “_And
the
Colonel’s
lady
and
Judy
O’Grady
are
sisters
under
their
skins_
.”
It
was
true
, he
decided
; though
the
novels
he
had
read
had
led
him
to
believe
otherwise
. His
idea
, for
which
the
novels
were
responsible
, had
been
that
only
formal
proposals
obtained
in
the
upper
classes
. It
was
all
right
enough
, down
whence
he
had
come
, for
youths
and
maidens
to
win
each
other
by
contact
; but
for
the
exalted
personages
up
above
on
the
heights
to
make
love
in
similar
fashion
had
seemed
unthinkable
. Yet
the
novels
were
wrong
. Here
was
a
proof
of
it
. The
same
pressures
and
caresses
, unaccompanied
by
speech
, that
were
efficacious
with
the
girls
of
the
working-class
, were
equally
efficacious
with
the
girls
above
the
working-class
. They
were
all
of
the
same
flesh
, after
all
, sisters
under
their
skins
; and
he
might
have
known
as
much
himself
had
he
remembered
his
Spencer
. As
he
held
Ruth
in
his
arms
and
soothed
her
, he
took
great
consolation
in
the
thought
that
the
Colonel’s
lady
and
Judy
O’Grady
were
pretty
much
alike
under
their
skins
. It
brought
Ruth
closer
to
him
, made
her
possible
. Her
dear
flesh
was
as
anybody’s
flesh
, as
his
flesh
. There
was
no
bar
to
their
marriage
. Class
difference
was
the
only
difference
, and
class
was
extrinsic
. It
could
be
shaken
off
. A
slave
, he
had
read
, had
risen
to
the
Roman
purple
.
That
being
so
, then
he
could
rise
to
Ruth
. Under
her
purity
, and
saintliness
, and
culture
, and
ethereal
beauty
of
soul
, she
was
, in
things
fundamentally
human
, just
like
Lizzie
Connolly
and
all
Lizzie
Connollys
. All
that
was
possible
of
them
was
possible
of
her
. She
could
love
, and
hate
, maybe
have
hysterics
; and
she
could
certainly
be
jealous
, as
she
was
jealous
now
, uttering
her
last
sobs
in
his
arms
.
“Besides
, I
am
older
than
you
,”
she
remarked
suddenly
, opening
her
eyes
and
looking
up
at
him
, “three
years
older
.”
“Hush
, you
are
only
a
child
, and
I
am
forty
years
older
than
you
, in
experience
,”
was
his
answer
.
In
truth
, they
were
children
together
, so
far
as
love
was
concerned
,
and
they
were
as
naive
and
immature
in
the
expression
of
their
love
as
a
pair
of
children
, and
this
despite
the
fact
that
she
was
crammed
with
a
university
education
and
that
his
head
was
full
of
scientific
philosophy
and
the
hard
facts
of
life
.
They
sat
on
through
the
passing
glory
of
the
day
, talking
as
lovers
are
prone
to
talk
, marvelling
at
the
wonder
of
love
and
at
destiny
that
had
flung
them
so
strangely
together
, and
dogmatically
believing
that
they
loved
to
a
degree
never
attained
by
lovers
before
. And
they
returned
insistently
, again
and
again
, to
a
rehearsal
of
their
first
impressions
of
each
other
and
to
hopeless
attempts
to
analyze
just
precisely
what
they
felt
for
each
other
and
how
much
there
was
of
it
.
The
cloud-masses
on
the
western
horizon
received
the
descending
sun
,
and
the
circle
of
the
sky
turned
to
rose
, while
the
zenith
glowed
with
the
same
warm
color
. The
rosy
light
was
all
about
them
, flooding
over
them
, as
she
sang
, “Good-by
, Sweet
Day
.”
She
sang
softly
, leaning
in
the
cradle
of
his
arm
, her
hands
in
his
, their
hearts
in
each
other’s
hands
.
CHAPTER
XXII
.
Mrs
. Morse
did
not
require
a
mother’s
intuition
to
read
the
advertisement
in
Ruth’s
face
when
she
returned
home
. The
flush
that
would
not
leave
the
cheeks
told
the
simple
story
, and
more
eloquently
did
the
eyes
, large
and
bright
, reflecting
an
unmistakable
inward
glory
.
“What
has
happened
?”
Mrs
. Morse
asked
, having
bided
her
time
till
Ruth
had
gone
to
bed
.
“You
know
?”
Ruth
queried
, with
trembling
lips
.
For
reply
, her
mother’s
arm
went
around
her
, and
a
hand
was
softly
caressing
her
hair
.
“He
did
not
speak
,”
she
blurted
out
. “I
did
not
intend
that
it
should
happen
, and
I
would
never
have
let
him
speak—only
he
didn’t
speak
.”
“But
if
he
did
not
speak
, then
nothing
could
have
happened
, could
it
?”
“But
it
did
, just
the
same
.”
“In
the
name
of
goodness
, child
, what
are
you
babbling
about
?”
Mrs
.
Morse
was
bewildered
. “I
don’t
think
I
know
what
happened
, after
all
.
What
did
happen
?”
Ruth
looked
at
her
mother
in
surprise
.
“I
thought
you
knew
. Why
, we’re
engaged
, Martin
and
I
.”
Mrs
. Morse
laughed
with
incredulous
vexation
.
“No
, he
didn’t
speak
,”
Ruth
explained
. “He
just
loved
me
, that
was
all
.
I
was
as
surprised
as
you
are
. He
didn’t
say
a
word
. He
just
put
his
arm
around
me
. And—and
I
was
not
myself
. And
he
kissed
me
, and
I
kissed
him
. I
couldn’t
help
it
. I
just
had
to
. And
then
I
knew
I
loved
him
.”
She
paused
, waiting
with
expectancy
the
benediction
of
her
mother’s
kiss
, but
Mrs
. Morse
was
coldly
silent
.
“It
is
a
dreadful
accident
, I
know
,”
Ruth
recommenced
with
a
sinking
voice
. “And
I
don’t
know
how
you
will
ever
forgive
me
. But
I
couldn’t
help
it
. I
did
not
dream
that
I
loved
him
until
that
moment
. And
you
must
tell
father
for
me
.”
“Would
it
not
be
better
not
to
tell
your
father
? Let
me
see
Martin
Eden
, and
talk
with
him
, and
explain
. He
will
understand
and
release
you
.”
“No
! no
!”
Ruth
cried
, starting
up
. “I
do
not
want
to
be
released
. I
love
him
, and
love
is
very
sweet
. I
am
going
to
marry
him—of
course
, if
you
will
let
me
.”
“We
have
other
plans
for
you
, Ruth
, dear
, your
father
and
I—oh
, no
, no
;
no
man
picked
out
for
you
, or
anything
like
that
. Our
plans
go
no
farther
than
your
marrying
some
man
in
your
own
station
in
life
, a
good
and
honorable
gentleman
, whom
you
will
select
yourself
, when
you
love
him
.”
“But
I
love
Martin
already
,”
was
the
plaintive
protest
.
“We
would
not
influence
your
choice
in
any
way
; but
you
are
our
daughter
, and
we
could
not
bear
to
see
you
make
a
marriage
such
as
this
. He
has
nothing
but
roughness
and
coarseness
to
offer
you
in
exchange
for
all
that
is
refined
and
delicate
in
you
. He
is
no
match
for
you
in
any
way
. He
could
not
support
you
. We
have
no
foolish
ideas
about
wealth
, but
comfort
is
another
matter
, and
our
daughter
should
at
least
marry
a
man
who
can
give
her
that—and
not
a
penniless
adventurer
,
a
sailor
, a
cowboy
, a
smuggler
, and
Heaven
knows
what
else
, who
, in
addition
to
everything
, is
hare-brained
and
irresponsible
.”
Ruth
was
silent
. Every
word
she
recognized
as
true
.
“He
wastes
his
time
over
his
writing
, trying
to
accomplish
what
geniuses
and
rare
men
with
college
educations
sometimes
accomplish
. A
man
thinking
of
marriage
should
be
preparing
for
marriage
. But
not
he
.
As
I
have
said
, and
I
know
you
agree
with
me
, he
is
irresponsible
. And
why
should
he
not
be
? It
is
the
way
of
sailors
. He
has
never
learned
to
be
economical
or
temperate
. The
spendthrift
years
have
marked
him
. It
is
not
his
fault
, of
course
, but
that
does
not
alter
his
nature
. And
have
you
thought
of
the
years
of
licentiousness
he
inevitably
has
lived
? Have
you
thought
of
that
, daughter
? You
know
what
marriage
means
.”
Ruth
shuddered
and
clung
close
to
her
mother
.
“I
have
thought
.”
Ruth
waited
a
long
time
for
the
thought
to
frame
itself
. “And
it
is
terrible
. It
sickens
me
to
think
of
it
. I
told
you
it
was
a
dreadful
accident
, my
loving
him
; but
I
can’t
help
myself
.
Could
you
help
loving
father
? Then
it
is
the
same
with
me
. There
is
something
in
me
, in
him—I
never
knew
it
was
there
until
to-day—but
it
is
there
, and
it
makes
me
love
him
. I
never
thought
to
love
him
, but
,
you
see
, I
do
,”
she
concluded
, a
certain
faint
triumph
in
her
voice
.
They
talked
long
, and
to
little
purpose
, in
conclusion
agreeing
to
wait
an
indeterminate
time
without
doing
anything
.
The
same
conclusion
was
reached
, a
little
later
that
night
, between
Mrs
. Morse
and
her
husband
, after
she
had
made
due
confession
of
the
miscarriage
of
her
plans
.
“It
could
hardly
have
come
otherwise
,”
was
Mr
. Morse’s
judgment
. “This
sailor-fellow
has
been
the
only
man
she
was
in
touch
with
. Sooner
or
later
she
was
going
to
awaken
anyway
; and
she
did
awaken
, and
lo
! here
was
this
sailor-fellow
, the
only
accessible
man
at
the
moment
, and
of
course
she
promptly
loved
him
, or
thought
she
did
, which
amounts
to
the
same
thing
.”
Mrs
. Morse
took
it
upon
herself
to
work
slowly
and
indirectly
upon
Ruth
, rather
than
to
combat
her
. There
would
be
plenty
of
time
for
this
, for
Martin
was
not
in
position
to
marry
.
“Let
her
see
all
she
wants
of
him
,”
was
Mr
. Morse’s
advice
. “The
more
she
knows
him
, the
less
she’ll
love
him
, I
wager
. And
give
her
plenty
of
contrast
. Make
a
point
of
having
young
people
at
the
house
. Young
women
and
young
men
, all
sorts
of
young
men
, clever
men
, men
who
have
done
something
or
who
are
doing
things
, men
of
her
own
class
,
gentlemen
. She
can
gauge
him
by
them
. They
will
show
him
up
for
what
he
is
. And
after
all
, he
is
a
mere
boy
of
twenty-one
. Ruth
is
no
more
than
a
child
. It
is
calf
love
with
the
pair
of
them
, and
they
will
grow
out
of
it
.”
So
the
matter
rested
. Within
the
family
it
was
accepted
that
Ruth
and
Martin
were
engaged
, but
no
announcement
was
made
. The
family
did
not
think
it
would
ever
be
necessary
. Also
, it
was
tacitly
understood
that
it
was
to
be
a
long
engagement
. They
did
not
ask
Martin
to
go
to
work
,
nor
to
cease
writing
. They
did
not
intend
to
encourage
him
to
mend
himself
. And
he
aided
and
abetted
them
in
their
unfriendly
designs
, for
going
to
work
was
farthest
from
his
thoughts
.
“I
wonder
if
you’ll
like
what
I
have
done
!”
he
said
to
Ruth
several
days
later
. “I’ve
decided
that
boarding
with
my
sister
is
too
expensive
, and
I
am
going
to
board
myself
. I’ve
rented
a
little
room
out
in
North
Oakland
, retired
neighborhood
and
all
the
rest
, you
know
,
and
I’ve
bought
an
oil-burner
on
which
to
cook
.”
Ruth
was
overjoyed
. The
oil-burner
especially
pleased
her
.
“That
was
the
way
Mr
. Butler
began
his
start
,”
she
said
.
Martin
frowned
inwardly
at
the
citation
of
that
worthy
gentleman
, and
went
on
: “I
put
stamps
on
all
my
manuscripts
and
started
them
off
to
the
editors
again
. Then
to-day
I
moved
in
, and
to-morrow
I
start
to
work
.”
“A
position
!”
she
cried
, betraying
the
gladness
of
her
surprise
in
all
her
body
, nestling
closer
to
him
, pressing
his
hand
, smiling
. “And
you
never
told
me
! What
is
it
?”
He
shook
his
head
.
“I
meant
that
I
was
going
to
work
at
my
writing
.”
Her
face
fell
, and
he
went
on
hastily
. “Don’t
misjudge
me
. I
am
not
going
in
this
time
with
any
iridescent
ideas
. It
is
to
be
a
cold
, prosaic
, matter-of-fact
business
proposition
. It
is
better
than
going
to
sea
again
, and
I
shall
earn
more
money
than
any
position
in
Oakland
can
bring
an
unskilled
man
.”
“You
see
, this
vacation
I
have
taken
has
given
me
perspective
. I
haven’t
been
working
the
life
out
of
my
body
, and
I
haven’t
been
writing
, at
least
not
for
publication
. All
I’ve
done
has
been
to
love
you
and
to
think
. I’ve
read
some
, too
, but
it
has
been
part
of
my
thinking
, and
I
have
read
principally
magazines
. I
have
generalized
about
myself
, and
the
world
, my
place
in
it
, and
my
chance
to
win
to
a
place
that
will
be
fit
for
you
. Also
, I’ve
been
reading
Spencer’s
‘Philosophy
of
Style
,’
and
found
out
a
lot
of
what
was
the
matter
with
me—or
my
writing
, rather
; and
for
that
matter
with
most
of
the
writing
that
is
published
every
month
in
the
magazines
.”
“But
the
upshot
of
it
all—of
my
thinking
and
reading
and
loving—is
that
I
am
going
to
move
to
Grub
Street
. I
shall
leave
masterpieces
alone
and
do
hack-work—jokes
, paragraphs
, feature
articles
, humorous
verse
, and
society
verse—all
the
rot
for
which
there
seems
so
much
demand
. Then
there
are
the
newspaper
syndicates
, and
the
newspaper
short-story
syndicates
, and
the
syndicates
for
the
Sunday
supplements
. I
can
go
ahead
and
hammer
out
the
stuff
they
want
, and
earn
the
equivalent
of
a
good
salary
by
it
. There
are
free-lances
, you
know
, who
earn
as
much
as
four
or
five
hundred
a
month
. I
don’t
care
to
become
as
they
; but
I’ll
earn
a
good
living
, and
have
plenty
of
time
to
myself
, which
I
wouldn’t
have
in
any
position
.”
“Then
, I’ll
have
my
spare
time
for
study
and
for
real
work
. In
between
the
grind
I’ll
try
my
hand
at
masterpieces
, and
I’ll
study
and
prepare
myself
for
the
writing
of
masterpieces
. Why
, I
am
amazed
at
the
distance
I
have
come
already
. When
I
first
tried
to
write
, I
had
nothing
to
write
about
except
a
few
paltry
experiences
which
I
neither
understood
nor
appreciated
. But
I
had
no
thoughts
. I
really
didn’t
. I
didn’t
even
have
the
words
with
which
to
think
. My
experiences
were
so
many
meaningless
pictures
. But
as
I
began
to
add
to
my
knowledge
, and
to
my
vocabulary
, I
saw
something
more
in
my
experiences
than
mere
pictures
. I
retained
the
pictures
and
I
found
their
interpretation
.
That
was
when
I
began
to
do
good
work
, when
I
wrote
‘Adventure
,’
‘Joy
,’
‘The
Pot
,’
‘The
Wine
of
Life
,’
‘The
Jostling
Street
,’
the
‘Love-cycle
,’
and
the
‘Sea
Lyrics
.’
I
shall
write
more
like
them
, and
better
; but
I
shall
do
it
in
my
spare
time
. My
feet
are
on
the
solid
earth
, now
.
Hack-work
and
income
first
, masterpieces
afterward
. Just
to
show
you
, I
wrote
half
a
dozen
jokes
last
night
for
the
comic
weeklies
; and
just
as
I
was
going
to
bed
, the
thought
struck
me
to
try
my
hand
at
a
triolet—a
humorous
one
; and
inside
an
hour
I
had
written
four
. They
ought
to
be
worth
a
dollar
apiece
. Four
dollars
right
there
for
a
few
afterthoughts
on
the
way
to
bed
.”
“Of
course
it’s
all
valueless
, just
so
much
dull
and
sordid
plodding
;
but
it
is
no
more
dull
and
sordid
than
keeping
books
at
sixty
dollars
a
month
, adding
up
endless
columns
of
meaningless
figures
until
one
dies
.
And
furthermore
, the
hack-work
keeps
me
in
touch
with
things
literary
and
gives
me
time
to
try
bigger
things
.”
“But
what
good
are
these
bigger
things
, these
masterpieces
?”
Ruth
demanded
. “You
can’t
sell
them
.”
“Oh
, yes
, I
can
,”
he
began
; but
she
interrupted
.
“All
those
you
named
, and
which
you
say
yourself
are
good—you
have
not
sold
any
of
them
. We
can’t
get
married
on
masterpieces
that
won’t
sell
.”
“Then
we’ll
get
married
on
triolets
that
will
sell
,”
he
asserted
stoutly
, putting
his
arm
around
her
and
drawing
a
very
unresponsive
sweetheart
toward
him
.
“Listen
to
this
,”
he
went
on
in
attempted
gayety
. “It’s
not
art
, but
it’s
a
dollar
.
“He
came
in
When
I
was
out
,
To
borrow
some
tin
Was
why
he
came
in
,
And
he
went
without
;
So
I
was
in
And
he
was
out
.”
The
merry
lilt
with
which
he
had
invested
the
jingle
was
at
variance
with
the
dejection
that
came
into
his
face
as
he
finished
. He
had
drawn
no
smile
from
Ruth
. She
was
looking
at
him
in
an
earnest
and
troubled
way
.
“It
may
be
a
dollar
,”
she
said
, “but
it
is
a
jester’s
dollar
, the
fee
of
a
clown
. Don’t
you
see
, Martin
, the
whole
thing
is
lowering
. I
want
the
man
I
love
and
honor
to
be
something
finer
and
higher
than
a
perpetrator
of
jokes
and
doggerel
.”
“You
want
him
to
be
like—say
Mr
. Butler
?”
he
suggested
.
“I
know
you
don’t
like
Mr
. Butler
,”
she
began
.
“Mr
. Butler’s
all
right
,”
he
interrupted
. “It’s
only
his
indigestion
I
find
fault
with
. But
to
save
me
I
can’t
see
any
difference
between
writing
jokes
or
comic
verse
and
running
a
type-writer
, taking
dictation
, or
keeping
sets
of
books
. It
is
all
a
means
to
an
end
. Your
theory
is
for
me
to
begin
with
keeping
books
in
order
to
become
a
successful
lawyer
or
man
of
business
. Mine
is
to
begin
with
hack-work
and
develop
into
an
able
author
.”
“There
is
a
difference
,”
she
insisted
.
“What
is
it
?”
“Why
, your
good
work
, what
you
yourself
call
good
, you
can’t
sell
. You
have
tried
, you
know
that
,—but
the
editors
won’t
buy
it
.”
“Give
me
time
, dear
,”
he
pleaded
. “The
hack-work
is
only
makeshift
, and
I
don’t
take
it
seriously
. Give
me
two
years
. I
shall
succeed
in
that
time
, and
the
editors
will
be
glad
to
buy
my
good
work
. I
know
what
I
am
saying
; I
have
faith
in
myself
. I
know
what
I
have
in
me
; I
know
what
literature
is
, now
; I
know
the
average
rot
that
is
poured
out
by
a
lot
of
little
men
; and
I
know
that
at
the
end
of
two
years
I
shall
be
on
the
highroad
to
success
. As
for
business
, I
shall
never
succeed
at
it
. I
am
not
in
sympathy
with
it
. It
strikes
me
as
dull
, and
stupid
,
and
mercenary
, and
tricky
. Anyway
I
am
not
adapted
for
it
. I’d
never
get
beyond
a
clerkship
, and
how
could
you
and
I
be
happy
on
the
paltry
earnings
of
a
clerk
? I
want
the
best
of
everything
in
the
world
for
you
, and
the
only
time
when
I
won’t
want
it
will
be
when
there
is
something
better
. And
I’m
going
to
get
it
, going
to
get
all
of
it
. The
income
of
a
successful
author
makes
Mr
. Butler
look
cheap
. A
‘best-seller’
will
earn
anywhere
between
fifty
and
a
hundred
thousand
dollars—sometimes
more
and
sometimes
less
; but
, as
a
rule
, pretty
close
to
those
figures
.”
She
remained
silent
; her
disappointment
was
apparent
.
“Well
?”
he
asked
.
“I
had
hoped
and
planned
otherwise
. I
had
thought
, and
I
still
think
,
that
the
best
thing
for
you
would
be
to
study
shorthand—you
already
know
type-writing—and
go
into
father’s
office
. You
have
a
good
mind
,
and
I
am
confident
you
would
succeed
as
a
lawyer
.”
CHAPTER
XXIII
.
That
Ruth
had
little
faith
in
his
power
as
a
writer
, did
not
alter
her
nor
diminish
her
in
Martin’s
eyes
. In
the
breathing
spell
of
the
vacation
he
had
taken
, he
had
spent
many
hours
in
self-analysis
, and
thereby
learned
much
of
himself
. He
had
discovered
that
he
loved
beauty
more
than
fame
, and
that
what
desire
he
had
for
fame
was
largely
for
Ruth’s
sake
. It
was
for
this
reason
that
his
desire
for
fame
was
strong
. He
wanted
to
be
great
in
the
world’s
eyes
; “to
make
good
,”
as
he
expressed
it
, in
order
that
the
woman
he
loved
should
be
proud
of
him
and
deem
him
worthy
.
As
for
himself
, he
loved
beauty
passionately
, and
the
joy
of
serving
her
was
to
him
sufficient
wage
. And
more
than
beauty
he
loved
Ruth
. He
considered
love
the
finest
thing
in
the
world
. It
was
love
that
had
worked
the
revolution
in
him
, changing
him
from
an
uncouth
sailor
to
a
student
and
an
artist
; therefore
, to
him
, the
finest
and
greatest
of
the
three
, greater
than
learning
and
artistry
, was
love
. Already
he
had
discovered
that
his
brain
went
beyond
Ruth’s
, just
as
it
went
beyond
the
brains
of
her
brothers
, or
the
brain
of
her
father
. In
spite
of
every
advantage
of
university
training
, and
in
the
face
of
her
bachelorship
of
arts
, his
power
of
intellect
overshadowed
hers
, and
his
year
or
so
of
self-study
and
equipment
gave
him
a
mastery
of
the
affairs
of
the
world
and
art
and
life
that
she
could
never
hope
to
possess
.
All
this
he
realized
, but
it
did
not
affect
his
love
for
her
, nor
her
love
for
him
. Love
was
too
fine
and
noble
, and
he
was
too
loyal
a
lover
for
him
to
besmirch
love
with
criticism
. What
did
love
have
to
do
with
Ruth’s
divergent
views
on
art
, right
conduct
, the
French
Revolution
, or
equal
suffrage
? They
were
mental
processes
, but
love
was
beyond
reason
;
it
was
superrational
. He
could
not
belittle
love
. He
worshipped
it
.
Love
lay
on
the
mountain-tops
beyond
the
valley-land
of
reason
. It
was
a
sublimated
condition
of
existence
, the
topmost
peak
of
living
, and
it
came
rarely
. Thanks
to
the
school
of
scientific
philosophers
he
favored
, he
knew
the
biological
significance
of
love
; but
by
a
refined
process
of
the
same
scientific
reasoning
he
reached
the
conclusion
that
the
human
organism
achieved
its
highest
purpose
in
love
, that
love
must
not
be
questioned
, but
must
be
accepted
as
the
highest
guerdon
of
life
.
Thus
, he
considered
the
lover
blessed
over
all
creatures
, and
it
was
a
delight
to
him
to
think
of
“God’s
own
mad
lover
,”
rising
above
the
things
of
earth
, above
wealth
and
judgment
, public
opinion
and
applause
, rising
above
life
itself
and
“dying
on
a
kiss
.”
Much
of
this
Martin
had
already
reasoned
out
, and
some
of
it
he
reasoned
out
later
. In
the
meantime
he
worked
, taking
no
recreation
except
when
he
went
to
see
Ruth
, and
living
like
a
Spartan
. He
paid
two
dollars
and
a
half
a
month
rent
for
the
small
room
he
got
from
his
Portuguese
landlady
, Maria
Silva
, a
virago
and
a
widow
, hard
working
and
harsher
tempered
, rearing
her
large
brood
of
children
somehow
, and
drowning
her
sorrow
and
fatigue
at
irregular
intervals
in
a
gallon
of
the
thin
, sour
wine
that
she
bought
from
the
corner
grocery
and
saloon
for
fifteen
cents
. From
detesting
her
and
her
foul
tongue
at
first
,
Martin
grew
to
admire
her
as
he
observed
the
brave
fight
she
made
.
There
were
but
four
rooms
in
the
little
house—three
, when
Martin’s
was
subtracted
. One
of
these
, the
parlor
, gay
with
an
ingrain
carpet
and
dolorous
with
a
funeral
card
and
a
death-picture
of
one
of
her
numerous
departed
babes
, was
kept
strictly
for
company
. The
blinds
were
always
down
, and
her
barefooted
tribe
was
never
permitted
to
enter
the
sacred
precinct
save
on
state
occasions
. She
cooked
, and
all
ate
, in
the
kitchen
, where
she
likewise
washed
, starched
, and
ironed
clothes
on
all
days
of
the
week
except
Sunday
; for
her
income
came
largely
from
taking
in
washing
from
her
more
prosperous
neighbors
. Remained
the
bedroom
,
small
as
the
one
occupied
by
Martin
, into
which
she
and
her
seven
little
ones
crowded
and
slept
. It
was
an
everlasting
miracle
to
Martin
how
it
was
accomplished
, and
from
her
side
of
the
thin
partition
he
heard
nightly
every
detail
of
the
going
to
bed
, the
squalls
and
squabbles
, the
soft
chattering
, and
the
sleepy
, twittering
noises
as
of
birds
. Another
source
of
income
to
Maria
were
her
cows
, two
of
them
,
which
she
milked
night
and
morning
and
which
gained
a
surreptitious
livelihood
from
vacant
lots
and
the
grass
that
grew
on
either
side
the
public
side
walks
, attended
always
by
one
or
more
of
her
ragged
boys
,
whose
watchful
guardianship
consisted
chiefly
in
keeping
their
eyes
out
for
the
poundmen
.
In
his
own
small
room
Martin
lived
, slept
, studied
, wrote
, and
kept
house
. Before
the
one
window
, looking
out
on
the
tiny
front
porch
, was
the
kitchen
table
that
served
as
desk
, library
, and
type-writing
stand
.
The
bed
, against
the
rear
wall
, occupied
two-thirds
of
the
total
space
of
the
room
. The
table
was
flanked
on
one
side
by
a
gaudy
bureau
,
manufactured
for
profit
and
not
for
service
, the
thin
veneer
of
which
was
shed
day
by
day
. This
bureau
stood
in
the
corner
, and
in
the
opposite
corner
, on
the
table’s
other
flank
, was
the
kitchen—the
oil-stove
on
a
dry-goods
box
, inside
of
which
were
dishes
and
cooking
utensils
, a
shelf
on
the
wall
for
provisions
, and
a
bucket
of
water
on
the
floor
. Martin
had
to
carry
his
water
from
the
kitchen
sink
, there
being
no
tap
in
his
room
. On
days
when
there
was
much
steam
to
his
cooking
, the
harvest
of
veneer
from
the
bureau
was
unusually
generous
.
Over
the
bed
, hoisted
by
a
tackle
to
the
ceiling
, was
his
bicycle
. At
first
he
had
tried
to
keep
it
in
the
basement
; but
the
tribe
of
Silva
,
loosening
the
bearings
and
puncturing
the
tires
, had
driven
him
out
.
Next
he
attempted
the
tiny
front
porch
, until
a
howling
southeaster
drenched
the
wheel
a
night-long
. Then
he
had
retreated
with
it
to
his
room
and
slung
it
aloft
.
A
small
closet
contained
his
clothes
and
the
books
he
had
accumulated
and
for
which
there
was
no
room
on
the
table
or
under
the
table
. Hand
in
hand
with
reading
, he
had
developed
the
habit
of
making
notes
, and
so
copiously
did
he
make
them
that
there
would
have
been
no
existence
for
him
in
the
confined
quarters
had
he
not
rigged
several
clothes-lines
across
the
room
on
which
the
notes
were
hung
. Even
so
, he
was
crowded
until
navigating
the
room
was
a
difficult
task
. He
could
not
open
the
door
without
first
closing
the
closet
door
, and
_vice
versa_
. It
was
impossible
for
him
anywhere
to
traverse
the
room
in
a
straight
line
. To
go
from
the
door
to
the
head
of
the
bed
was
a
zigzag
course
that
he
was
never
quite
able
to
accomplish
in
the
dark
without
collisions
. Having
settled
the
difficulty
of
the
conflicting
doors
, he
had
to
steer
sharply
to
the
right
to
avoid
the
kitchen
. Next
, he
sheered
to
the
left
, to
escape
the
foot
of
the
bed
; but
this
sheer
, if
too
generous
, brought
him
against
the
corner
of
the
table
. With
a
sudden
twitch
and
lurch
, he
terminated
the
sheer
and
bore
off
to
the
right
along
a
sort
of
canal
, one
bank
of
which
was
the
bed
, the
other
the
table
. When
the
one
chair
in
the
room
was
at
its
usual
place
before
the
table
, the
canal
was
unnavigable
. When
the
chair
was
not
in
use
, it
reposed
on
top
of
the
bed
, though
sometimes
he
sat
on
the
chair
when
cooking
, reading
a
book
while
the
water
boiled
, and
even
becoming
skilful
enough
to
manage
a
paragraph
or
two
while
steak
was
frying
.
Also
, so
small
was
the
little
corner
that
constituted
the
kitchen
, he
was
able
, sitting
down
, to
reach
anything
he
needed
. In
fact
, it
was
expedient
to
cook
sitting
down
; standing
up
, he
was
too
often
in
his
own
way
.
In
conjunction
with
a
perfect
stomach
that
could
digest
anything
, he
possessed
knowledge
of
the
various
foods
that
were
at
the
same
time
nutritious
and
cheap
. Pea-soup
was
a
common
article
in
his
diet
, as
well
as
potatoes
and
beans
, the
latter
large
and
brown
and
cooked
in
Mexican
style
. Rice
, cooked
as
American
housewives
never
cook
it
and
can
never
learn
to
cook
it
, appeared
on
Martin’s
table
at
least
once
a
day
. Dried
fruits
were
less
expensive
than
fresh
, and
he
had
usually
a
pot
of
them
, cooked
and
ready
at
hand
, for
they
took
the
place
of
butter
on
his
bread
. Occasionally
he
graced
his
table
with
a
piece
of
round-steak
, or
with
a
soup-bone
. Coffee
, without
cream
or
milk
, he
had
twice
a
day
, in
the
evening
substituting
tea
; but
both
coffee
and
tea
were
excellently
cooked
.
There
was
need
for
him
to
be
economical
. His
vacation
had
consumed
nearly
all
he
had
earned
in
the
laundry
, and
he
was
so
far
from
his
market
that
weeks
must
elapse
before
he
could
hope
for
the
first
returns
from
his
hack-work
. Except
at
such
times
as
he
saw
Ruth
, or
dropped
in
to
see
his
sister
Gertude
, he
lived
a
recluse
, in
each
day
accomplishing
at
least
three
days’
labor
of
ordinary
men
. He
slept
a
scant
five
hours
, and
only
one
with
a
constitution
of
iron
could
have
held
himself
down
, as
Martin
did
, day
after
day
, to
nineteen
consecutive
hours
of
toil
. He
never
lost
a
moment
. On
the
looking-glass
were
lists
of
definitions
and
pronunciations
; when
shaving
, or
dressing
, or
combing
his
hair
, he
conned
these
lists
over
. Similar
lists
were
on
the
wall
over
the
oil-stove
, and
they
were
similarly
conned
while
he
was
engaged
in
cooking
or
in
washing
the
dishes
. New
lists
continually
displaced
the
old
ones
. Every
strange
or
partly
familiar
word
encountered
in
his
reading
was
immediately
jotted
down
,
and
later
, when
a
sufficient
number
had
been
accumulated
, were
typed
and
pinned
to
the
wall
or
looking-glass
. He
even
carried
them
in
his
pockets
, and
reviewed
them
at
odd
moments
on
the
street
, or
while
waiting
in
butcher
shop
or
grocery
to
be
served
.
He
went
farther
in
the
matter
. Reading
the
works
of
men
who
had
arrived
, he
noted
every
result
achieved
by
them
, and
worked
out
the
tricks
by
which
they
had
been
achieved—the
tricks
of
narrative
, of
exposition
, of
style
, the
points
of
view
, the
contrasts
, the
epigrams
;
and
of
all
these
he
made
lists
for
study
. He
did
not
ape
. He
sought
principles
. He
drew
up
lists
of
effective
and
fetching
mannerisms
, till
out
of
many
such
, culled
from
many
writers
, he
was
able
to
induce
the
general
principle
of
mannerism
, and
, thus
equipped
, to
cast
about
for
new
and
original
ones
of
his
own
, and
to
weigh
and
measure
and
appraise
them
properly
. In
similar
manner
he
collected
lists
of
strong
phrases
,
the
phrases
of
living
language
, phrases
that
bit
like
acid
and
scorched
like
flame
, or
that
glowed
and
were
mellow
and
luscious
in
the
midst
of
the
arid
desert
of
common
speech
. He
sought
always
for
the
principle
that
lay
behind
and
beneath
. He
wanted
to
know
how
the
thing
was
done
;
after
that
he
could
do
it
for
himself
. He
was
not
content
with
the
fair
face
of
beauty
. He
dissected
beauty
in
his
crowded
little
bedroom
laboratory
, where
cooking
smells
alternated
with
the
outer
bedlam
of
the
Silva
tribe
; and
, having
dissected
and
learned
the
anatomy
of
beauty
, he
was
nearer
being
able
to
create
beauty
itself
.
He
was
so
made
that
he
could
work
only
with
understanding
. He
could
not
work
blindly
, in
the
dark
, ignorant
of
what
he
was
producing
and
trusting
to
chance
and
the
star
of
his
genius
that
the
effect
produced
should
be
right
and
fine
. He
had
no
patience
with
chance
effects
. He
wanted
to
know
why
and
how
. His
was
deliberate
creative
genius
, and
,
before
he
began
a
story
or
poem
, the
thing
itself
was
already
alive
in
his
brain
, with
the
end
in
sight
and
the
means
of
realizing
that
end
in
his
conscious
possession
. Otherwise
the
effort
was
doomed
to
failure
.
On
the
other
hand
, he
appreciated
the
chance
effects
in
words
and
phrases
that
came
lightly
and
easily
into
his
brain
, and
that
later
stood
all
tests
of
beauty
and
power
and
developed
tremendous
and
incommunicable
connotations
. Before
such
he
bowed
down
and
marvelled
,
knowing
that
they
were
beyond
the
deliberate
creation
of
any
man
. And
no
matter
how
much
he
dissected
beauty
in
search
of
the
principles
that
underlie
beauty
and
make
beauty
possible
, he
was
aware
, always
, of
the
innermost
mystery
of
beauty
to
which
he
did
not
penetrate
and
to
which
no
man
had
ever
penetrated
. He
knew
full
well
, from
his
Spencer
, that
man
can
never
attain
ultimate
knowledge
of
anything
, and
that
the
mystery
of
beauty
was
no
less
than
that
of
life—nay
, more—that
the
fibres
of
beauty
and
life
were
intertwisted
, and
that
he
himself
was
but
a
bit
of
the
same
nonunderstandable
fabric
, twisted
of
sunshine
and
star-dust
and
wonder
.
In
fact
, it
was
when
filled
with
these
thoughts
that
he
wrote
his
essay
entitled
“Star-dust
,”
in
which
he
had
his
fling
, not
at
the
principles
of
criticism
, but
at
the
principal
critics
. It
was
brilliant
, deep
,
philosophical
, and
deliciously
touched
with
laughter
. Also
it
was
promptly
rejected
by
the
magazines
as
often
as
it
was
submitted
. But
having
cleared
his
mind
of
it
, he
went
serenely
on
his
way
. It
was
a
habit
he
developed
, of
incubating
and
maturing
his
thought
upon
a
subject
, and
of
then
rushing
into
the
type-writer
with
it
. That
it
did
not
see
print
was
a
matter
of
small
moment
with
him
. The
writing
of
it
was
the
culminating
act
of
a
long
mental
process
, the
drawing
together
of
scattered
threads
of
thought
and
the
final
generalizing
upon
all
the
data
with
which
his
mind
was
burdened
. To
write
such
an
article
was
the
conscious
effort
by
which
he
freed
his
mind
and
made
it
ready
for
fresh
material
and
problems
. It
was
in
a
way
akin
to
that
common
habit
of
men
and
women
troubled
by
real
or
fancied
grievances
, who
periodically
and
volubly
break
their
long-suffering
silence
and
“have
their
say”
till
the
last
word
is
said
.
CHAPTER
XXIV
.
The
weeks
passed
. Martin
ran
out
of
money
, and
publishers’
checks
were
far
away
as
ever
. All
his
important
manuscripts
had
come
back
and
been
started
out
again
, and
his
hack-work
fared
no
better
. His
little
kitchen
was
no
longer
graced
with
a
variety
of
foods
. Caught
in
the
pinch
with
a
part
sack
of
rice
and
a
few
pounds
of
dried
apricots
, rice
and
apricots
was
his
menu
three
times
a
day
for
five
days
hand-running
.
Then
he
startled
to
realize
on
his
credit
. The
Portuguese
grocer
, to
whom
he
had
hitherto
paid
cash
, called
a
halt
when
Martin’s
bill
reached
the
magnificent
total
of
three
dollars
and
eighty-five
cents
.
“For
you
see
,”
said
the
grocer
, “you
no
catcha
da
work
, I
losa
da
mon’
.”
And
Martin
could
reply
nothing
. There
was
no
way
of
explaining
. It
was
not
true
business
principle
to
allow
credit
to
a
strong-bodied
young
fellow
of
the
working-class
who
was
too
lazy
to
work
.
“You
catcha
da
job
, I
let
you
have
mora
da
grub
,”
the
grocer
assured
Martin
. “No
job
, no
grub
. Thata
da
business
.”
And
then
, to
show
that
it
was
purely
business
foresight
and
not
prejudice
, “Hava
da
drink
on
da
house—good
friends
justa
da
same
.”
So
Martin
drank
, in
his
easy
way
, to
show
that
he
was
good
friends
with
the
house
, and
then
went
supperless
to
bed
.
The
fruit
store
, where
Martin
had
bought
his
vegetables
, was
run
by
an
American
whose
business
principles
were
so
weak
that
he
let
Martin
run
a
bill
of
five
dollars
before
stopping
his
credit
. The
baker
stopped
at
two
dollars
, and
the
butcher
at
four
dollars
. Martin
added
his
debts
and
found
that
he
was
possessed
of
a
total
credit
in
all
the
world
of
fourteen
dollars
and
eighty-five
cents
. He
was
up
with
his
type-writer
rent
, but
he
estimated
that
he
could
get
two
months’
credit
on
that
,
which
would
be
eight
dollars
. When
that
occurred
, he
would
have
exhausted
all
possible
credit
.
The
last
purchase
from
the
fruit
store
had
been
a
sack
of
potatoes
, and
for
a
week
he
had
potatoes
, and
nothing
but
potatoes
, three
times
a
day
. An
occasional
dinner
at
Ruth’s
helped
to
keep
strength
in
his
body
, though
he
found
it
tantalizing
enough
to
refuse
further
helping
when
his
appetite
was
raging
at
sight
of
so
much
food
spread
before
it
.
Now
and
again
, though
afflicted
with
secret
shame
, he
dropped
in
at
his
sister’s
at
meal-time
and
ate
as
much
as
he
dared—more
than
he
dared
at
the
Morse
table
.
Day
by
day
he
worked
on
, and
day
by
day
the
postman
delivered
to
him
rejected
manuscripts
. He
had
no
money
for
stamps
, so
the
manuscripts
accumulated
in
a
heap
under
the
table
. Came
a
day
when
for
forty
hours
he
had
not
tasted
food
. He
could
not
hope
for
a
meal
at
Ruth’s
, for
she
was
away
to
San
Rafael
on
a
two
weeks’
visit
; and
for
very
shame’s
sake
he
could
not
go
to
his
sister’s
. To
cap
misfortune
, the
postman
, in
his
afternoon
round
, brought
him
five
returned
manuscripts
. Then
it
was
that
Martin
wore
his
overcoat
down
into
Oakland
, and
came
back
without
it
, but
with
five
dollars
tinkling
in
his
pocket
. He
paid
a
dollar
each
on
account
to
the
four
tradesmen
, and
in
his
kitchen
fried
steak
and
onions
, made
coffee
, and
stewed
a
large
pot
of
prunes
. And
having
dined
, he
sat
down
at
his
table-desk
and
completed
before
midnight
an
essay
which
he
entitled
“The
Dignity
of
Usury
.”
Having
typed
it
out
, he
flung
it
under
the
table
, for
there
had
been
nothing
left
from
the
five
dollars
with
which
to
buy
stamps
.
Later
on
he
pawned
his
watch
, and
still
later
his
wheel
, reducing
the
amount
available
for
food
by
putting
stamps
on
all
his
manuscripts
and
sending
them
out
. He
was
disappointed
with
his
hack-work
. Nobody
cared
to
buy
. He
compared
it
with
what
he
found
in
the
newspapers
, weeklies
,
and
cheap
magazines
, and
decided
that
his
was
better
, far
better
, than
the
average
; yet
it
would
not
sell
. Then
he
discovered
that
most
of
the
newspapers
printed
a
great
deal
of
what
was
called
“plate”
stuff
, and
he
got
the
address
of
the
association
that
furnished
it
. His
own
work
that
he
sent
in
was
returned
, along
with
a
stereotyped
slip
informing
him
that
the
staff
supplied
all
the
copy
that
was
needed
.
In
one
of
the
great
juvenile
periodicals
he
noted
whole
columns
of
incident
and
anecdote
. Here
was
a
chance
. His
paragraphs
were
returned
,
and
though
he
tried
repeatedly
he
never
succeeded
in
placing
one
. Later
on
, when
it
no
longer
mattered
, he
learned
that
the
associate
editors
and
sub-editors
augmented
their
salaries
by
supplying
those
paragraphs
themselves
. The
comic
weeklies
returned
his
jokes
and
humorous
verse
,
and
the
light
society
verse
he
wrote
for
the
large
magazines
found
no
abiding-place
. Then
there
was
the
newspaper
storiette
. He
knew
that
he
could
write
better
ones
than
were
published
. Managing
to
obtain
the
addresses
of
two
newspaper
syndicates
, he
deluged
them
with
storiettes
.
When
he
had
written
twenty
and
failed
to
place
one
of
them
, he
ceased
.
And
yet
, from
day
to
day
, he
read
storiettes
in
the
dailies
and
weeklies
, scores
and
scores
of
storiettes
, not
one
of
which
would
compare
with
his
. In
his
despondency
, he
concluded
that
he
had
no
judgment
whatever
, that
he
was
hypnotized
by
what
he
wrote
, and
that
he
was
a
self-deluded
pretender
.
The
inhuman
editorial
machine
ran
smoothly
as
ever
. He
folded
the
stamps
in
with
his
manuscript
, dropped
it
into
the
letter-box
, and
from
three
weeks
to
a
month
afterward
the
postman
came
up
the
steps
and
handed
him
the
manuscript
. Surely
there
were
no
live
, warm
editors
at
the
other
end
. It
was
all
wheels
and
cogs
and
oil-cups—a
clever
mechanism
operated
by
automatons
. He
reached
stages
of
despair
wherein
he
doubted
if
editors
existed
at
all
. He
had
never
received
a
sign
of
the
existence
of
one
, and
from
absence
of
judgment
in
rejecting
all
he
wrote
it
seemed
plausible
that
editors
were
myths
, manufactured
and
maintained
by
office
boys
, typesetters
, and
pressmen
.
The
hours
he
spent
with
Ruth
were
the
only
happy
ones
he
had
, and
they
were
not
all
happy
. He
was
afflicted
always
with
a
gnawing
restlessness
, more
tantalizing
than
in
the
old
days
before
he
possessed
her
love
; for
now
that
he
did
possess
her
love
, the
possession
of
her
was
far
away
as
ever
. He
had
asked
for
two
years
; time
was
flying
, and
he
was
achieving
nothing
. Again
, he
was
always
conscious
of
the
fact
that
she
did
not
approve
what
he
was
doing
. She
did
not
say
so
directly
. Yet
indirectly
she
let
him
understand
it
as
clearly
and
definitely
as
she
could
have
spoken
it
. It
was
not
resentment
with
her
,
but
disapproval
; though
less
sweet-natured
women
might
have
resented
where
she
was
no
more
than
disappointed
. Her
disappointment
lay
in
that
this
man
she
had
taken
to
mould
, refused
to
be
moulded
. To
a
certain
extent
she
had
found
his
clay
plastic
, then
it
had
developed
stubbornness
, declining
to
be
shaped
in
the
image
of
her
father
or
of
Mr
. Butler
.
What
was
great
and
strong
in
him
, she
missed
, or
, worse
yet
,
misunderstood
. This
man
, whose
clay
was
so
plastic
that
he
could
live
in
any
number
of
pigeonholes
of
human
existence
, she
thought
wilful
and
most
obstinate
because
she
could
not
shape
him
to
live
in
her
pigeonhole
, which
was
the
only
one
she
knew
. She
could
not
follow
the
flights
of
his
mind
, and
when
his
brain
got
beyond
her
, she
deemed
him
erratic
. Nobody
else’s
brain
ever
got
beyond
her
. She
could
always
follow
her
father
and
mother
, her
brothers
and
Olney
; wherefore
, when
she
could
not
follow
Martin
, she
believed
the
fault
lay
with
him
. It
was
the
old
tragedy
of
insularity
trying
to
serve
as
mentor
to
the
universal
.
“You
worship
at
the
shrine
of
the
established
,”
he
told
her
once
, in
a
discussion
they
had
over
Praps
and
Vanderwater
. “I
grant
that
as
authorities
to
quote
they
are
most
excellent—the
two
foremost
literary
critics
in
the
United
States
. Every
school
teacher
in
the
land
looks
up
to
Vanderwater
as
the
Dean
of
American
criticism
. Yet
I
read
his
stuff
,
and
it
seems
to
me
the
perfection
of
the
felicitous
expression
of
the
inane
. Why
, he
is
no
more
than
a
ponderous
bromide
, thanks
to
Gelett
Burgess
. And
Praps
is
no
better
. His
‘Hemlock
Mosses
,’
for
instance
is
beautifully
written
. Not
a
comma
is
out
of
place
; and
the
tone—ah
!—is
lofty
, so
lofty
. He
is
the
best-paid
critic
in
the
United
States
.
Though
, Heaven
forbid
! he’s
not
a
critic
at
all
. They
do
criticism
better
in
England
.
“But
the
point
is
, they
sound
the
popular
note
, and
they
sound
it
so
beautifully
and
morally
and
contentedly
. Their
reviews
remind
me
of
a
British
Sunday
. They
are
the
popular
mouthpieces
. They
back
up
your
professors
of
English
, and
your
professors
of
English
back
them
up
. And
there
isn’t
an
original
idea
in
any
of
their
skulls
. They
know
only
the
established
,—in
fact
, they
are
the
established
. They
are
weak
minded
,
and
the
established
impresses
itself
upon
them
as
easily
as
the
name
of
the
brewery
is
impressed
on
a
beer
bottle
. And
their
function
is
to
catch
all
the
young
fellows
attending
the
university
, to
drive
out
of
their
minds
any
glimmering
originality
that
may
chance
to
be
there
, and
to
put
upon
them
the
stamp
of
the
established
.”
“I
think
I
am
nearer
the
truth
,”
she
replied
, “when
I
stand
by
the
established
, than
you
are
, raging
around
like
an
iconoclastic
South
Sea
Islander
.”
“It
was
the
missionary
who
did
the
image
breaking
,”
he
laughed
. “And
unfortunately
, all
the
missionaries
are
off
among
the
heathen
, so
there
are
none
left
at
home
to
break
those
old
images
, Mr
. Vanderwater
and
Mr
. Praps
.”
“And
the
college
professors
, as
well
,”
she
added
.
He
shook
his
head
emphatically
. “No
; the
science
professors
should
live
. They’re
really
great
. But
it
would
be
a
good
deed
to
break
the
heads
of
nine-tenths
of
the
English
professors—little
,
microscopic-minded
parrots
!”
Which
was
rather
severe
on
the
professors
, but
which
to
Ruth
was
blasphemy
. She
could
not
help
but
measure
the
professors
, neat
,
scholarly
, in
fitting
clothes
, speaking
in
well-modulated
voices
,
breathing
of
culture
and
refinement
, with
this
almost
indescribable
young
fellow
whom
somehow
she
loved
, whose
clothes
never
would
fit
him
,
whose
heavy
muscles
told
of
damning
toil
, who
grew
excited
when
he
talked
, substituting
abuse
for
calm
statement
and
passionate
utterance
for
cool
self-possession
. They
at
least
earned
good
salaries
and
were—yes
, she
compelled
herself
to
face
it—were
gentlemen
; while
he
could
not
earn
a
penny
, and
he
was
not
as
they
.
She
did
not
weigh
Martin’s
words
nor
judge
his
argument
by
them
. Her
conclusion
that
his
argument
was
wrong
was
reached—unconsciously
, it
is
true—by
a
comparison
of
externals
. They
, the
professors
, were
right
in
their
literary
judgments
because
they
were
successes
. Martin’s
literary
judgments
were
wrong
because
he
could
not
sell
his
wares
. To
use
his
own
phrase
, they
made
good
, and
he
did
not
make
good
. And
besides
, it
did
not
seem
reasonable
that
he
should
be
right—he
who
had
stood
, so
short
a
time
before
, in
that
same
living
room
, blushing
and
awkward
,
acknowledging
his
introduction
, looking
fearfully
about
him
at
the
bric-a-brac
his
swinging
shoulders
threatened
to
break
, asking
how
long
since
Swinburne
died
, and
boastfully
announcing
that
he
had
read
“Excelsior”
and
the
“Psalm
of
Life
.”
Unwittingly
, Ruth
herself
proved
his
point
that
she
worshipped
the
established
. Martin
followed
the
processes
of
her
thoughts
, but
forbore
to
go
farther
. He
did
not
love
her
for
what
she
thought
of
Praps
and
Vanderwater
and
English
professors
, and
he
was
coming
to
realize
, with
increasing
conviction
, that
he
possessed
brain-areas
and
stretches
of
knowledge
which
she
could
never
comprehend
nor
know
existed
.
In
music
she
thought
him
unreasonable
, and
in
the
matter
of
opera
not
only
unreasonable
but
wilfully
perverse
.
“How
did
you
like
it
?”
she
asked
him
one
night
, on
the
way
home
from
the
opera
.
It
was
a
night
when
he
had
taken
her
at
the
expense
of
a
month’s
rigid
economizing
on
food
. After
vainly
waiting
for
him
to
speak
about
it
,
herself
still
tremulous
and
stirred
by
what
she
had
just
seen
and
heard
, she
had
asked
the
question
.
“I
liked
the
overture
,”
was
his
answer
. “It
was
splendid
.”
“Yes
, but
the
opera
itself
?”
“That
was
splendid
too
; that
is
, the
orchestra
was
, though
I’d
have
enjoyed
it
more
if
those
jumping-jacks
had
kept
quiet
or
gone
off
the
stage
.”
Ruth
was
aghast
.
“You
don’t
mean
Tetralani
or
Barillo
?”
she
queried
.
“All
of
them—the
whole
kit
and
crew
.”
“But
they
are
great
artists
,”
she
protested
.
“They
spoiled
the
music
just
the
same
, with
their
antics
and
unrealities
.”
“But
don’t
you
like
Barillo’s
voice
?”
Ruth
asked
. “He
is
next
to
Caruso
, they
say
.”
“Of
course
I
liked
him
, and
I
liked
Tetralani
even
better
. Her
voice
is
exquisite—or
at
least
I
think
so
.”
“But
, but—”
Ruth
stammered
. “I
don’t
know
what
you
mean
, then
. You
admire
their
voices
, yet
say
they
spoiled
the
music
.”
“Precisely
that
. I’d
give
anything
to
hear
them
in
concert
, and
I’d
give
even
a
bit
more
not
to
hear
them
when
the
orchestra
is
playing
.
I’m
afraid
I
am
a
hopeless
realist
. Great
singers
are
not
great
actors
.
To
hear
Barillo
sing
a
love
passage
with
the
voice
of
an
angel
, and
to
hear
Tetralani
reply
like
another
angel
, and
to
hear
it
all
accompanied
by
a
perfect
orgy
of
glowing
and
colorful
music—is
ravishing
, most
ravishing
. I
do
not
admit
it
. I
assert
it
. But
the
whole
effect
is
spoiled
when
I
look
at
them—at
Tetralani
, five
feet
ten
in
her
stocking
feet
and
weighing
a
hundred
and
ninety
pounds
, and
at
Barillo
, a
scant
five
feet
four
, greasy-featured
, with
the
chest
of
a
squat
, undersized
blacksmith
, and
at
the
pair
of
them
, attitudinizing
, clasping
their
breasts
, flinging
their
arms
in
the
air
like
demented
creatures
in
an
asylum
; and
when
I
am
expected
to
accept
all
this
as
the
faithful
illusion
of
a
love-scene
between
a
slender
and
beautiful
princess
and
a
handsome
, romantic
, young
prince—why
, I
can’t
accept
it
, that’s
all
.
It’s
rot
; it’s
absurd
; it’s
unreal
. That’s
what’s
the
matter
with
it
.
It’s
not
real
. Don’t
tell
me
that
anybody
in
this
world
ever
made
love
that
way
. Why
, if
I’d
made
love
to
you
in
such
fashion
, you’d
have
boxed
my
ears
.”
“But
you
misunderstand
,”
Ruth
protested
. “Every
form
of
art
has
its
limitations
.”
(She
was
busy
recalling
a
lecture
she
had
heard
at
the
university
on
the
conventions
of
the
arts
.)
“In
painting
there
are
only
two
dimensions
to
the
canvas
, yet
you
accept
the
illusion
of
three
dimensions
which
the
art
of
a
painter
enables
him
to
throw
into
the
canvas
. In
writing
, again
, the
author
must
be
omnipotent
. You
accept
as
perfectly
legitimate
the
author’s
account
of
the
secret
thoughts
of
the
heroine
, and
yet
all
the
time
you
know
that
the
heroine
was
alone
when
thinking
these
thoughts
, and
that
neither
the
author
nor
any
one
else
was
capable
of
hearing
them
. And
so
with
the
stage
, with
sculpture
,
with
opera
, with
every
art
form
. Certain
irreconcilable
things
must
be
accepted
.”
“Yes
, I
understood
that
,”
Martin
answered
. “All
the
arts
have
their
conventions
.”
(Ruth
was
surprised
at
his
use
of
the
word
. It
was
as
if
he
had
studied
at
the
university
himself
, instead
of
being
ill-equipped
from
browsing
at
haphazard
through
the
books
in
the
library
.)
“But
even
the
conventions
must
be
real
. Trees
, painted
on
flat
cardboard
and
stuck
up
on
each
side
of
the
stage
, we
accept
as
a
forest
. It
is
a
real
enough
convention
. But
, on
the
other
hand
, we
would
not
accept
a
sea
scene
as
a
forest
. We
can’t
do
it
. It
violates
our
senses
. Nor
would
you
, or
, rather
, should
you
, accept
the
ravings
and
writhings
and
agonized
contortions
of
those
two
lunatics
to-night
as
a
convincing
portrayal
of
love
.”
“But
you
don’t
hold
yourself
superior
to
all
the
judges
of
music
?”
she
protested
.
“No
, no
, not
for
a
moment
. I
merely
maintain
my
right
as
an
individual
.
I
have
just
been
telling
you
what
I
think
, in
order
to
explain
why
the
elephantine
gambols
of
Madame
Tetralani
spoil
the
orchestra
for
me
. The
world’s
judges
of
music
may
all
be
right
. But
I
am
I
, and
I
won’t
subordinate
my
taste
to
the
unanimous
judgment
of
mankind
. If
I
don’t
like
a
thing
, I
don’t
like
it
, that’s
all
; and
there
is
no
reason
under
the
sun
why
I
should
ape
a
liking
for
it
just
because
the
majority
of
my
fellow-creatures
like
it
, or
make
believe
they
like
it
. I
can’t
follow
the
fashions
in
the
things
I
like
or
dislike
.”
“But
music
, you
know
, is
a
matter
of
training
,”
Ruth
argued
; “and
opera
is
even
more
a
matter
of
training
. May
it
not
be—”
“That
I
am
not
trained
in
opera
?”
he
dashed
in
.
She
nodded
.
“The
very
thing
,”
he
agreed
. “And
I
consider
I
am
fortunate
in
not
having
been
caught
when
I
was
young
. If
I
had
, I
could
have
wept
sentimental
tears
to-night
, and
the
clownish
antics
of
that
precious
pair
would
have
but
enhanced
the
beauty
of
their
voices
and
the
beauty
of
the
accompanying
orchestra
. You
are
right
. It’s
mostly
a
matter
of
training
. And
I
am
too
old
, now
. I
must
have
the
real
or
nothing
. An
illusion
that
won’t
convince
is
a
palpable
lie
, and
that’s
what
grand
opera
is
to
me
when
little
Barillo
throws
a
fit
, clutches
mighty
Tetralani
in
his
arms
(also
in
a
fit)
, and
tells
her
how
passionately
he
adores
her
.”
Again
Ruth
measured
his
thoughts
by
comparison
of
externals
and
in
accordance
with
her
belief
in
the
established
. Who
was
he
that
he
should
be
right
and
all
the
cultured
world
wrong
? His
words
and
thoughts
made
no
impression
upon
her
. She
was
too
firmly
intrenched
in
the
established
to
have
any
sympathy
with
revolutionary
ideas
. She
had
always
been
used
to
music
, and
she
had
enjoyed
opera
ever
since
she
was
a
child
, and
all
her
world
had
enjoyed
it
, too
. Then
by
what
right
did
Martin
Eden
emerge
, as
he
had
so
recently
emerged
, from
his
rag-time
and
working-class
songs
, and
pass
judgment
on
the
world’s
music
? She
was
vexed
with
him
, and
as
she
walked
beside
him
she
had
a
vague
feeling
of
outrage
. At
the
best
, in
her
most
charitable
frame
of
mind
,
she
considered
the
statement
of
his
views
to
be
a
caprice
, an
erratic
and
uncalled-for
prank
. But
when
he
took
her
in
his
arms
at
the
door
and
kissed
her
good
night
in
tender
lover-fashion
, she
forgot
everything
in
the
outrush
of
her
own
love
to
him
. And
later
, on
a
sleepless
pillow
, she
puzzled
, as
she
had
often
puzzled
of
late
, as
to
how
it
was
that
she
loved
so
strange
a
man
, and
loved
him
despite
the
disapproval
of
her
people
.
And
next
day
Martin
Eden
cast
hack-work
aside
, and
at
white
heat
hammered
out
an
essay
to
which
he
gave
the
title
, “The
Philosophy
of
Illusion
.”
A
stamp
started
it
on
its
travels
, but
it
was
destined
to
receive
many
stamps
and
to
be
started
on
many
travels
in
the
months
that
followed
.
CHAPTER
XXV
.
Maria
Silva
was
poor
, and
all
the
ways
of
poverty
were
clear
to
her
.
Poverty
, to
Ruth
, was
a
word
signifying
a
not-nice
condition
of
existence
. That
was
her
total
knowledge
on
the
subject
. She
knew
Martin
was
poor
, and
his
condition
she
associated
in
her
mind
with
the
boyhood
of
Abraham
Lincoln
, of
Mr
. Butler
, and
of
other
men
who
had
become
successes
. Also
, while
aware
that
poverty
was
anything
but
delectable
,
she
had
a
comfortable
middle-class
feeling
that
poverty
was
salutary
,
that
it
was
a
sharp
spur
that
urged
on
to
success
all
men
who
were
not
degraded
and
hopeless
drudges
. So
that
her
knowledge
that
Martin
was
so
poor
that
he
had
pawned
his
watch
and
overcoat
did
not
disturb
her
. She
even
considered
it
the
hopeful
side
of
the
situation
, believing
that
sooner
or
later
it
would
arouse
him
and
compel
him
to
abandon
his
writing
.
Ruth
never
read
hunger
in
Martin’s
face
, which
had
grown
lean
and
had
enlarged
the
slight
hollows
in
the
cheeks
. In
fact
, she
marked
the
change
in
his
face
with
satisfaction
. It
seemed
to
refine
him
, to
remove
from
him
much
of
the
dross
of
flesh
and
the
too
animal-like
vigor
that
lured
her
while
she
detested
it
. Sometimes
, when
with
her
,
she
noted
an
unusual
brightness
in
his
eyes
, and
she
admired
it
, for
it
made
him
appear
more
the
poet
and
the
scholar—the
things
he
would
have
liked
to
be
and
which
she
would
have
liked
him
to
be
. But
Maria
Silva
read
a
different
tale
in
the
hollow
cheeks
and
the
burning
eyes
, and
she
noted
the
changes
in
them
from
day
to
day
, by
them
following
the
ebb
and
flow
of
his
fortunes
. She
saw
him
leave
the
house
with
his
overcoat
and
return
without
it
, though
the
day
was
chill
and
raw
, and
promptly
she
saw
his
cheeks
fill
out
slightly
and
the
fire
of
hunger
leave
his
eyes
. In
the
same
way
she
had
seen
his
wheel
and
watch
go
,
and
after
each
event
she
had
seen
his
vigor
bloom
again
.
Likewise
she
watched
his
toils
, and
knew
the
measure
of
the
midnight
oil
he
burned
. Work
! She
knew
that
he
outdid
her
, though
his
work
was
of
a
different
order
. And
she
was
surprised
to
behold
that
the
less
food
he
had
, the
harder
he
worked
. On
occasion
, in
a
casual
sort
of
way
, when
she
thought
hunger
pinched
hardest
, she
would
send
him
in
a
loaf
of
new
baking
, awkwardly
covering
the
act
with
banter
to
the
effect
that
it
was
better
than
he
could
bake
. And
again
, she
would
send
one
of
her
toddlers
in
to
him
with
a
great
pitcher
of
hot
soup
,
debating
inwardly
the
while
whether
she
was
justified
in
taking
it
from
the
mouths
of
her
own
flesh
and
blood
. Nor
was
Martin
ungrateful
,
knowing
as
he
did
the
lives
of
the
poor
, and
that
if
ever
in
the
world
there
was
charity
, this
was
it
.
On
a
day
when
she
had
filled
her
brood
with
what
was
left
in
the
house
,
Maria
invested
her
last
fifteen
cents
in
a
gallon
of
cheap
wine
.
Martin
, coming
into
her
kitchen
to
fetch
water
, was
invited
to
sit
down
and
drink
. He
drank
her
very-good
health
, and
in
return
she
drank
his
.
Then
she
drank
to
prosperity
in
his
undertakings
, and
he
drank
to
the
hope
that
James
Grant
would
show
up
and
pay
her
for
his
washing
. James
Grant
was
a
journeymen
carpenter
who
did
not
always
pay
his
bills
and
who
owed
Maria
three
dollars
.
Both
Maria
and
Martin
drank
the
sour
new
wine
on
empty
stomachs
, and
it
went
swiftly
to
their
heads
. Utterly
differentiated
creatures
that
they
were
, they
were
lonely
in
their
misery
, and
though
the
misery
was
tacitly
ignored
, it
was
the
bond
that
drew
them
together
. Maria
was
amazed
to
learn
that
he
had
been
in
the
Azores
, where
she
had
lived
until
she
was
eleven
. She
was
doubly
amazed
that
he
had
been
in
the
Hawaiian
Islands
, whither
she
had
migrated
from
the
Azores
with
her
people
. But
her
amazement
passed
all
bounds
when
he
told
her
he
had
been
on
Maui
, the
particular
island
whereon
she
had
attained
womanhood
and
married
. Kahului
, where
she
had
first
met
her
husband
,—he
, Martin
,
had
been
there
twice
! Yes
, she
remembered
the
sugar
steamers
, and
he
had
been
on
them—well
, well
, it
was
a
small
world
. And
Wailuku
! That
place
, too
! Did
he
know
the
head-luna
of
the
plantation
? Yes
, and
had
had
a
couple
of
drinks
with
him
.
And
so
they
reminiscenced
and
drowned
their
hunger
in
the
raw
, sour
wine
. To
Martin
the
future
did
not
seem
so
dim
. Success
trembled
just
before
him
. He
was
on
the
verge
of
clasping
it
. Then
he
studied
the
deep-lined
face
of
the
toil-worn
woman
before
him
, remembered
her
soups
and
loaves
of
new
baking
, and
felt
spring
up
in
him
the
warmest
gratitude
and
philanthropy
.
“Maria
,”
he
exclaimed
suddenly
. “What
would
you
like
to
have
?”
She
looked
at
him
, bepuzzled
.
“What
would
you
like
to
have
now
, right
now
, if
you
could
get
it
?”
“Shoe
alla
da
roun’
for
da
childs—seven
pairs
da
shoe
.”
“You
shall
have
them
,”
he
announced
, while
she
nodded
her
head
gravely
.
“But
I
mean
a
big
wish
, something
big
that
you
want
.”
Her
eyes
sparkled
good-naturedly
. He
was
choosing
to
make
fun
with
her
,
Maria
, with
whom
few
made
fun
these
days
.
“Think
hard
,”
he
cautioned
, just
as
she
was
opening
her
mouth
to
speak
.
“Alla
right
,”
she
answered
. “I
thinka
da
hard
. I
lika
da
house
, dis
house—all
mine
, no
paya
da
rent
, seven
dollar
da
month
.”
“You
shall
have
it
,”
he
granted
, “and
in
a
short
time
. Now
wish
the
great
wish
. Make
believe
I
am
God
, and
I
say
to
you
anything
you
want
you
can
have
. Then
you
wish
that
thing
, and
I
listen
.”
Maria
considered
solemnly
for
a
space
.
“You
no
’fraid
?”
she
asked
warningly
.
“No
, no
,”
he
laughed
, “I’m
not
afraid
. Go
ahead
.”
“Most
verra
big
,”
she
warned
again
.
“All
right
. Fire
away
.”
“Well
, den—”
She
drew
a
big
breath
like
a
child
, as
she
voiced
to
the
uttermost
all
she
cared
to
demand
of
life
. “I
lika
da
have
one
milka
ranch—good
milka
ranch
. Plenty
cow
, plenty
land
, plenty
grass
. I
lika
da
have
near
San
Le-an
; my
sister
liva
dere
. I
sella
da
milk
in
Oakland
. I
maka
da
plentee
mon
. Joe
an’
Nick
no
runna
da
cow
. Dey
go-a
to
school
. Bimeby
maka
da
good
engineer
, worka
da
railroad
. Yes
, I
lika
da
milka
ranch
.”
She
paused
and
regarded
Martin
with
twinkling
eyes
.
“You
shall
have
it
,”
he
answered
promptly
.
She
nodded
her
head
and
touched
her
lips
courteously
to
the
wine-glass
and
to
the
giver
of
the
gift
she
knew
would
never
be
given
. His
heart
was
right
, and
in
her
own
heart
she
appreciated
his
intention
as
much
as
if
the
gift
had
gone
with
it
.
“No
, Maria
,”
he
went
on
; “Nick
and
Joe
won’t
have
to
peddle
milk
, and
all
the
kids
can
go
to
school
and
wear
shoes
the
whole
year
round
. It
will
be
a
first-class
milk
ranch—everything
complete
. There
will
be
a
house
to
live
in
and
a
stable
for
the
horses
, and
cow-barns
, of
course
.
There
will
be
chickens
, pigs
, vegetables
, fruit
trees
, and
everything
like
that
; and
there
will
be
enough
cows
to
pay
for
a
hired
man
or
two
.
Then
you
won’t
have
anything
to
do
but
take
care
of
the
children
. For
that
matter
, if
you
find
a
good
man
, you
can
marry
and
take
it
easy
while
he
runs
the
ranch
.”
And
from
such
largess
, dispensed
from
his
future
, Martin
turned
and
took
his
one
good
suit
of
clothes
to
the
pawnshop
. His
plight
was
desperate
for
him
to
do
this
, for
it
cut
him
off
from
Ruth
. He
had
no
second-best
suit
that
was
presentable
, and
though
he
could
go
to
the
butcher
and
the
baker
, and
even
on
occasion
to
his
sister’s
, it
was
beyond
all
daring
to
dream
of
entering
the
Morse
home
so
disreputably
apparelled
.
He
toiled
on
, miserable
and
well-nigh
hopeless
. It
began
to
appear
to
him
that
the
second
battle
was
lost
and
that
he
would
have
to
go
to
work
. In
doing
this
he
would
satisfy
everybody—the
grocer
, his
sister
,
Ruth
, and
even
Maria
, to
whom
he
owed
a
month’s
room
rent
. He
was
two
months
behind
with
his
type-writer
, and
the
agency
was
clamoring
for
payment
or
for
the
return
of
the
machine
. In
desperation
, all
but
ready
to
surrender
, to
make
a
truce
with
fate
until
he
could
get
a
fresh
start
, he
took
the
civil
service
examinations
for
the
Railway
Mail
. To
his
surprise
, he
passed
first
. The
job
was
assured
, though
when
the
call
would
come
to
enter
upon
his
duties
nobody
knew
.
It
was
at
this
time
, at
the
lowest
ebb
, that
the
smooth-running
editorial
machine
broke
down
. A
cog
must
have
slipped
or
an
oil-cup
run
dry
, for
the
postman
brought
him
one
morning
a
short
, thin
envelope
.
Martin
glanced
at
the
upper
left-hand
corner
and
read
the
name
and
address
of
the
_Transcontinental
Monthly_
. His
heart
gave
a
great
leap
,
and
he
suddenly
felt
faint
, the
sinking
feeling
accompanied
by
a
strange
trembling
of
the
knees
. He
staggered
into
his
room
and
sat
down
on
the
bed
, the
envelope
still
unopened
, and
in
that
moment
came
understanding
to
him
how
people
suddenly
fall
dead
upon
receipt
of
extraordinarily
good
news
.
Of
course
this
was
good
news
. There
was
no
manuscript
in
that
thin
envelope
, therefore
it
was
an
acceptance
. He
knew
the
story
in
the
hands
of
the
_Transcontinental_
. It
was
“The
Ring
of
Bells
,”
one
of
his
horror
stories
, and
it
was
an
even
five
thousand
words
. And
, since
first-class
magazines
always
paid
on
acceptance
, there
was
a
check
inside
. Two
cents
a
word—twenty
dollars
a
thousand
; the
check
must
be
a
hundred
dollars
. One
hundred
dollars
! As
he
tore
the
envelope
open
,
every
item
of
all
his
debts
surged
in
his
brain—$3
.85
to
the
grocer
;
butcher
$4
.00
flat
; baker
, $2
.00
; fruit
store
, $5
.00
; total
, $14
.85
.
Then
there
was
room
rent
, $2
.50
; another
month
in
advance
, $2
.50
; two
months’
type-writer
, $8
.00
; a
month
in
advance
, $4
.00
; total
, $31
.85
.
And
finally
to
be
added
, his
pledges
, plus
interest
, with
the
pawnbroker—watch
, $5
.50
; overcoat
, $5
.50
; wheel
, $7
.75
; suit
of
clothes
, $5
.50
(60
%
interest
, but
what
did
it
matter
?)—grand
total
,
$56
.10
. He
saw
, as
if
visible
in
the
air
before
him
, in
illuminated
figures
, the
whole
sum
, and
the
subtraction
that
followed
and
that
gave
a
remainder
of
$43
.90
. When
he
had
squared
every
debt
, redeemed
every
pledge
, he
would
still
have
jingling
in
his
pockets
a
princely
$43
.90
.
And
on
top
of
that
he
would
have
a
month’s
rent
paid
in
advance
on
the
type-writer
and
on
the
room
.
By
this
time
he
had
drawn
the
single
sheet
of
type-written
letter
out
and
spread
it
open
. There
was
no
check
. He
peered
into
the
envelope
,
held
it
to
the
light
, but
could
not
trust
his
eyes
, and
in
trembling
haste
tore
the
envelope
apart
. There
was
no
check
. He
read
the
letter
,
skimming
it
line
by
line
, dashing
through
the
editor’s
praise
of
his
story
to
the
meat
of
the
letter
, the
statement
why
the
check
had
not
been
sent
. He
found
no
such
statement
, but
he
did
find
that
which
made
him
suddenly
wilt
. The
letter
slid
from
his
hand
. His
eyes
went
lack-lustre
, and
he
lay
back
on
the
pillow
, pulling
the
blanket
about
him
and
up
to
his
chin
.
Five
dollars
for
“The
Ring
of
Bells”—five
dollars
for
five
thousand
words
! Instead
of
two
cents
a
word
, ten
words
for
a
cent
! And
the
editor
had
praised
it
, too
. And
he
would
receive
the
check
when
the
story
was
published
. Then
it
was
all
poppycock
, two
cents
a
word
for
minimum
rate
and
payment
upon
acceptance
. It
was
a
lie
, and
it
had
led
him
astray
. He
would
never
have
attempted
to
write
had
he
known
that
.
He
would
have
gone
to
work—to
work
for
Ruth
. He
went
back
to
the
day
he
first
attempted
to
write
, and
was
appalled
at
the
enormous
waste
of
time—and
all
for
ten
words
for
a
cent
. And
the
other
high
rewards
of
writers
, that
he
had
read
about
, must
be
lies
, too
. His
second-hand
ideas
of
authorship
were
wrong
, for
here
was
the
proof
of
it
.
The
_Transcontinental_
sold
for
twenty-five
cents
, and
its
dignified
and
artistic
cover
proclaimed
it
as
among
the
first-class
magazines
. It
was
a
staid
, respectable
magazine
, and
it
had
been
published
continuously
since
long
before
he
was
born
. Why
, on
the
outside
cover
were
printed
every
month
the
words
of
one
of
the
world’s
great
writers
,
words
proclaiming
the
inspired
mission
of
the
_Transcontinental_
by
a
star
of
literature
whose
first
coruscations
had
appeared
inside
those
self-same
covers
. And
the
high
and
lofty
, heaven-inspired
_Transcontinental_
paid
five
dollars
for
five
thousand
words
! The
great
writer
had
recently
died
in
a
foreign
land—in
dire
poverty
, Martin
remembered
, which
was
not
to
be
wondered
at
, considering
the
magnificent
pay
authors
receive
.
Well
, he
had
taken
the
bait
, the
newspaper
lies
about
writers
and
their
pay
, and
he
had
wasted
two
years
over
it
. But
he
would
disgorge
the
bait
now
. Not
another
line
would
he
ever
write
. He
would
do
what
Ruth
wanted
him
to
do
, what
everybody
wanted
him
to
do—get
a
job
. The
thought
of
going
to
work
reminded
him
of
Joe—Joe
, tramping
through
the
land
of
nothing-to-do
. Martin
heaved
a
great
sigh
of
envy
. The
reaction
of
nineteen
hours
a
day
for
many
days
was
strong
upon
him
. But
then
,
Joe
was
not
in
love
, had
none
of
the
responsibilities
of
love
, and
he
could
afford
to
loaf
through
the
land
of
nothing-to-do
. He
, Martin
, had
something
to
work
for
, and
go
to
work
he
would
. He
would
start
out
early
next
morning
to
hunt
a
job
. And
he
would
let
Ruth
know
, too
, that
he
had
mended
his
ways
and
was
willing
to
go
into
her
father’s
office
.
Five
dollars
for
five
thousand
words
, ten
words
for
a
cent
, the
market
price
for
art
. The
disappointment
of
it
, the
lie
of
it
, the
infamy
of
it
, were
uppermost
in
his
thoughts
; and
under
his
closed
eyelids
, in
fiery
figures
, burned
the
“$3
.85”
he
owed
the
grocer
. He
shivered
, and
was
aware
of
an
aching
in
his
bones
. The
small
of
his
back
ached
especially
. His
head
ached
, the
top
of
it
ached
, the
back
of
it
ached
,
the
brains
inside
of
it
ached
and
seemed
to
be
swelling
, while
the
ache
over
his
brows
was
intolerable
. And
beneath
the
brows
, planted
under
his
lids
, was
the
merciless
“$3
.85
.”
He
opened
his
eyes
to
escape
it
,
but
the
white
light
of
the
room
seemed
to
sear
the
balls
and
forced
him
to
close
his
eyes
, when
the
“$3
.85”
confronted
him
again
.
Five
dollars
for
five
thousand
words
, ten
words
for
a
cent—that
particular
thought
took
up
its
residence
in
his
brain
, and
he
could
no
more
escape
it
than
he
could
the
“$3
.85”
under
his
eyelids
. A
change
seemed
to
come
over
the
latter
, and
he
watched
curiously
, till
“$2
.00”
burned
in
its
stead
. Ah
, he
thought
, that
was
the
baker
. The
next
sum
that
appeared
was
“$2
.50
.”
It
puzzled
him
, and
he
pondered
it
as
if
life
and
death
hung
on
the
solution
. He
owed
somebody
two
dollars
and
a
half
, that
was
certain
, but
who
was
it
? To
find
it
was
the
task
set
him
by
an
imperious
and
malignant
universe
, and
he
wandered
through
the
endless
corridors
of
his
mind
, opening
all
manner
of
lumber
rooms
and
chambers
stored
with
odds
and
ends
of
memories
and
knowledge
as
he
vainly
sought
the
answer
. After
several
centuries
it
came
to
him
,
easily
, without
effort
, that
it
was
Maria
. With
a
great
relief
he
turned
his
soul
to
the
screen
of
torment
under
his
lids
. He
had
solved
the
problem
; now
he
could
rest
. But
no
, the
“$2
.50”
faded
away
, and
in
its
place
burned
“$8
.00
.”
Who
was
that
? He
must
go
the
dreary
round
of
his
mind
again
and
find
out
.
How
long
he
was
gone
on
this
quest
he
did
not
know
, but
after
what
seemed
an
enormous
lapse
of
time
, he
was
called
back
to
himself
by
a
knock
at
the
door
, and
by
Maria’s
asking
if
he
was
sick
. He
replied
in
a
muffled
voice
he
did
not
recognize
, saying
that
he
was
merely
taking
a
nap
. He
was
surprised
when
he
noted
the
darkness
of
night
in
the
room
. He
had
received
the
letter
at
two
in
the
afternoon
, and
he
realized
that
he
was
sick
.
Then
the
“$8
.00”
began
to
smoulder
under
his
lids
again
, and
he
returned
himself
to
servitude
. But
he
grew
cunning
. There
was
no
need
for
him
to
wander
through
his
mind
. He
had
been
a
fool
. He
pulled
a
lever
and
made
his
mind
revolve
about
him
, a
monstrous
wheel
of
fortune
, a
merry-go-round
of
memory
, a
revolving
sphere
of
wisdom
.
Faster
and
faster
it
revolved
, until
its
vortex
sucked
him
in
and
he
was
flung
whirling
through
black
chaos
.
Quite
naturally
he
found
himself
at
a
mangle
, feeding
starched
cuffs
.
But
as
he
fed
he
noticed
figures
printed
in
the
cuffs
. It
was
a
new
way
of
marking
linen
, he
thought
, until
, looking
closer
, he
saw
“$3
.85”
on
one
of
the
cuffs
. Then
it
came
to
him
that
it
was
the
grocer’s
bill
,
and
that
these
were
his
bills
flying
around
on
the
drum
of
the
mangle
.
A
crafty
idea
came
to
him
. He
would
throw
the
bills
on
the
floor
and
so
escape
paying
them
. No
sooner
thought
than
done
, and
he
crumpled
the
cuffs
spitefully
as
he
flung
them
upon
an
unusually
dirty
floor
. Ever
the
heap
grew
, and
though
each
bill
was
duplicated
a
thousand
times
, he
found
only
one
for
two
dollars
and
a
half
, which
was
what
he
owed
Maria
. That
meant
that
Maria
would
not
press
for
payment
, and
he
resolved
generously
that
it
would
be
the
only
one
he
would
pay
; so
he
began
searching
through
the
cast-out
heap
for
hers
. He
sought
it
desperately
, for
ages
, and
was
still
searching
when
the
manager
of
the
hotel
entered
, the
fat
Dutchman
. His
face
blazed
with
wrath
, and
he
shouted
in
stentorian
tones
that
echoed
down
the
universe
, “I
shall
deduct
the
cost
of
those
cuffs
from
your
wages
!”
The
pile
of
cuffs
grew
into
a
mountain
, and
Martin
knew
that
he
was
doomed
to
toil
for
a
thousand
years
to
pay
for
them
. Well
, there
was
nothing
left
to
do
but
kill
the
manager
and
burn
down
the
laundry
. But
the
big
Dutchman
frustrated
him
, seizing
him
by
the
nape
of
the
neck
and
dancing
him
up
and
down
. He
danced
him
over
the
ironing
tables
, the
stove
, and
the
mangles
, and
out
into
the
wash-room
and
over
the
wringer
and
washer
.
Martin
was
danced
until
his
teeth
rattled
and
his
head
ached
, and
he
marvelled
that
the
Dutchman
was
so
strong
.
And
then
he
found
himself
before
the
mangle
, this
time
receiving
the
cuffs
an
editor
of
a
magazine
was
feeding
from
the
other
side
. Each
cuff
was
a
check
, and
Martin
went
over
them
anxiously
, in
a
fever
of
expectation
, but
they
were
all
blanks
. He
stood
there
and
received
the
blanks
for
a
million
years
or
so
, never
letting
one
go
by
for
fear
it
might
be
filled
out
. At
last
he
found
it
. With
trembling
fingers
he
held
it
to
the
light
. It
was
for
five
dollars
. “Ha
! Ha
!”
laughed
the
editor
across
the
mangle
. “Well
, then
, I
shall
kill
you
,”
Martin
said
.
He
went
out
into
the
wash-room
to
get
the
axe
, and
found
Joe
starching
manuscripts
. He
tried
to
make
him
desist
, then
swung
the
axe
for
him
.
But
the
weapon
remained
poised
in
mid-air
, for
Martin
found
himself
back
in
the
ironing
room
in
the
midst
of
a
snow-storm
. No
, it
was
not
snow
that
was
falling
, but
checks
of
large
denomination
, the
smallest
not
less
than
a
thousand
dollars
. He
began
to
collect
them
and
sort
them
out
, in
packages
of
a
hundred
, tying
each
package
securely
with
twine
.
He
looked
up
from
his
task
and
saw
Joe
standing
before
him
juggling
flat-irons
, starched
shirts
, and
manuscripts
. Now
and
again
he
reached
out
and
added
a
bundle
of
checks
to
the
flying
miscellany
that
soared
through
the
roof
and
out
of
sight
in
a
tremendous
circle
. Martin
struck
at
him
, but
he
seized
the
axe
and
added
it
to
the
flying
circle
. Then
he
plucked
Martin
and
added
him
. Martin
went
up
through
the
roof
,
clutching
at
manuscripts
, so
that
by
the
time
he
came
down
he
had
a
large
armful
. But
no
sooner
down
than
up
again
, and
a
second
and
a
third
time
and
countless
times
he
flew
around
the
circle
. From
far
off
he
could
hear
a
childish
treble
singing
: “Waltz
me
around
again
,
Willie
, around
, around
, around
.”
He
recovered
the
axe
in
the
midst
of
the
Milky
Way
of
checks
, starched
shirts
, and
manuscripts
, and
prepared
, when
he
came
down
, to
kill
Joe
.
But
he
did
not
come
down
. Instead
, at
two
in
the
morning
, Maria
, having
heard
his
groans
through
the
thin
partition
, came
into
his
room
, to
put
hot
flat-irons
against
his
body
and
damp
cloths
upon
his
aching
eyes
.
CHAPTER
XXVI
.
Martin
Eden
did
not
go
out
to
hunt
for
a
job
in
the
morning
. It
was
late
afternoon
before
he
came
out
of
his
delirium
and
gazed
with
aching
eyes
about
the
room
. Mary
, one
of
the
tribe
of
Silva
, eight
years
old
,
keeping
watch
, raised
a
screech
at
sight
of
his
returning
consciousness
. Maria
hurried
into
the
room
from
the
kitchen
. She
put
her
work-calloused
hand
upon
his
hot
forehead
and
felt
his
pulse
.
“You
lika
da
eat
?”
she
asked
.
He
shook
his
head
. Eating
was
farthest
from
his
desire
, and
he
wondered
that
he
should
ever
have
been
hungry
in
his
life
.
“I’m
sick
, Maria
,”
he
said
weakly
. “What
is
it
? Do
you
know
?”
“Grip
,”
she
answered
. “Two
or
three
days
you
alla
da
right
. Better
you
no
eat
now
. Bimeby
plenty
can
eat
, to-morrow
can
eat
maybe
.”
Martin
was
not
used
to
sickness
, and
when
Maria
and
her
little
girl
left
him
, he
essayed
to
get
up
and
dress
. By
a
supreme
exertion
of
will
, with
rearing
brain
and
eyes
that
ached
so
that
he
could
not
keep
them
open
, he
managed
to
get
out
of
bed
, only
to
be
left
stranded
by
his
senses
upon
the
table
. Half
an
hour
later
he
managed
to
regain
the
bed
, where
he
was
content
to
lie
with
closed
eyes
and
analyze
his
various
pains
and
weaknesses
. Maria
came
in
several
times
to
change
the
cold
cloths
on
his
forehead
. Otherwise
she
left
him
in
peace
, too
wise
to
vex
him
with
chatter
. This
moved
him
to
gratitude
, and
he
murmured
to
himself
, “Maria
, you
getta
da
milka
ranch
, all
righta
, all
right
.”
Then
he
remembered
his
long-buried
past
of
yesterday
.
It
seemed
a
life-time
since
he
had
received
that
letter
from
the
_Transcontinental_
, a
life-time
since
it
was
all
over
and
done
with
and
a
new
page
turned
. He
had
shot
his
bolt
, and
shot
it
hard
, and
now
he
was
down
on
his
back
. If
he
hadn’t
starved
himself
, he
wouldn’t
have
been
caught
by
La
Grippe
. He
had
been
run
down
, and
he
had
not
had
the
strength
to
throw
off
the
germ
of
disease
which
had
invaded
his
system
.
This
was
what
resulted
.
“What
does
it
profit
a
man
to
write
a
whole
library
and
lose
his
own
life
?”
he
demanded
aloud
. “This
is
no
place
for
me
. No
more
literature
in
mine
. Me
for
the
counting-house
and
ledger
, the
monthly
salary
, and
the
little
home
with
Ruth
.”
Two
days
later
, having
eaten
an
egg
and
two
slices
of
toast
and
drunk
a
cup
of
tea
, he
asked
for
his
mail
, but
found
his
eyes
still
hurt
too
much
to
permit
him
to
read
.
“You
read
for
me
, Maria
,”
he
said
. “Never
mind
the
big
, long
letters
.
Throw
them
under
the
table
. Read
me
the
small
letters
.”
“No
can
,”
was
the
answer
. “Teresa
, she
go
to
school
, she
can
.”
So
Teresa
Silva
, aged
nine
, opened
his
letters
and
read
them
to
him
. He
listened
absently
to
a
long
dun
from
the
type-writer
people
, his
mind
busy
with
ways
and
means
of
finding
a
job
. Suddenly
he
was
shocked
back
to
himself
.
“‘We
offer
you
forty
dollars
for
all
serial
rights
in
your
story
,’”
Teresa
slowly
spelled
out
, “‘provided
you
allow
us
to
make
the
alterations
suggested
.’”
“What
magazine
is
that
?”
Martin
shouted
. “Here
, give
it
to
me
!”
He
could
see
to
read
, now
, and
he
was
unaware
of
the
pain
of
the
action
. It
was
the
_White
Mouse_
that
was
offering
him
forty
dollars
,
and
the
story
was
“The
Whirlpool
,”
another
of
his
early
horror
stories
.
He
read
the
letter
through
again
and
again
. The
editor
told
him
plainly
that
he
had
not
handled
the
idea
properly
, but
that
it
was
the
idea
they
were
buying
because
it
was
original
. If
they
could
cut
the
story
down
one-third
, they
would
take
it
and
send
him
forty
dollars
on
receipt
of
his
answer
.
He
called
for
pen
and
ink
, and
told
the
editor
he
could
cut
the
story
down
three-thirds
if
he
wanted
to
, and
to
send
the
forty
dollars
right
along
.
The
letter
despatched
to
the
letter-box
by
Teresa
, Martin
lay
back
and
thought
. It
wasn’t
a
lie
, after
all
. The
_White
Mouse_
paid
on
acceptance
. There
were
three
thousand
words
in
“The
Whirlpool
.”
Cut
down
a
third
, there
would
be
two
thousand
. At
forty
dollars
that
would
be
two
cents
a
word
. Pay
on
acceptance
and
two
cents
a
word—the
newspapers
had
told
the
truth
. And
he
had
thought
the
_White
Mouse_
a
third-rater
! It
was
evident
that
he
did
not
know
the
magazines
. He
had
deemed
the
_Transcontinental_
a
first-rater
, and
it
paid
a
cent
for
ten
words
. He
had
classed
the
_White
Mouse_
as
of
no
account
, and
it
paid
twenty
times
as
much
as
the_
Transcontinental_
and
also
had
paid
on
acceptance
.
Well
, there
was
one
thing
certain
: when
he
got
well
, he
would
not
go
out
looking
for
a
job
. There
were
more
stories
in
his
head
as
good
as
“The
Whirlpool
,”
and
at
forty
dollars
apiece
he
could
earn
far
more
than
in
any
job
or
position
. Just
when
he
thought
the
battle
lost
, it
was
won
. He
had
proved
for
his
career
. The
way
was
clear
. Beginning
with
the
_White
Mouse_
he
would
add
magazine
after
magazine
to
his
growing
list
of
patrons
. Hack-work
could
be
put
aside
. For
that
matter
,
it
had
been
wasted
time
, for
it
had
not
brought
him
a
dollar
. He
would
devote
himself
to
work
, good
work
, and
he
would
pour
out
the
best
that
was
in
him
. He
wished
Ruth
was
there
to
share
in
his
joy
, and
when
he
went
over
the
letters
left
lying
on
his
bed
, he
found
one
from
her
. It
was
sweetly
reproachful
, wondering
what
had
kept
him
away
for
so
dreadful
a
length
of
time
. He
reread
the
letter
adoringly
, dwelling
over
her
handwriting
, loving
each
stroke
of
her
pen
, and
in
the
end
kissing
her
signature
.
And
when
he
answered
, he
told
her
recklessly
that
he
had
not
been
to
see
her
because
his
best
clothes
were
in
pawn
. He
told
her
that
he
had
been
sick
, but
was
once
more
nearly
well
, and
that
inside
ten
days
or
two
weeks
(as
soon
as
a
letter
could
travel
to
New
York
City
and
return)
he
would
redeem
his
clothes
and
be
with
her
.
But
Ruth
did
not
care
to
wait
ten
days
or
two
weeks
. Besides
, her
lover
was
sick
. The
next
afternoon
, accompanied
by
Arthur
, she
arrived
in
the
Morse
carriage
, to
the
unqualified
delight
of
the
Silva
tribe
and
of
all
the
urchins
on
the
street
, and
to
the
consternation
of
Maria
. She
boxed
the
ears
of
the
Silvas
who
crowded
about
the
visitors
on
the
tiny
front
porch
, and
in
more
than
usual
atrocious
English
tried
to
apologize
for
her
appearance
. Sleeves
rolled
up
from
soap-flecked
arms
and
a
wet
gunny-sack
around
her
waist
told
of
the
task
at
which
she
had
been
caught
. So
flustered
was
she
by
two
such
grand
young
people
asking
for
her
lodger
, that
she
forgot
to
invite
them
to
sit
down
in
the
little
parlor
. To
enter
Martin’s
room
, they
passed
through
the
kitchen
,
warm
and
moist
and
steamy
from
the
big
washing
in
progress
. Maria
, in
her
excitement
, jammed
the
bedroom
and
bedroom-closet
doors
together
,
and
for
five
minutes
, through
the
partly
open
door
, clouds
of
steam
,
smelling
of
soap-suds
and
dirt
, poured
into
the
sick
chamber
.
Ruth
succeeded
in
veering
right
and
left
and
right
again
, and
in
running
the
narrow
passage
between
table
and
bed
to
Martin’s
side
; but
Arthur
veered
too
wide
and
fetched
up
with
clatter
and
bang
of
pots
and
pans
in
the
corner
where
Martin
did
his
cooking
. Arthur
did
not
linger
long
. Ruth
occupied
the
only
chair
, and
having
done
his
duty
, he
went
outside
and
stood
by
the
gate
, the
centre
of
seven
marvelling
Silvas
,
who
watched
him
as
they
would
have
watched
a
curiosity
in
a
side-show
.
All
about
the
carriage
were
gathered
the
children
from
a
dozen
blocks
,
waiting
and
eager
for
some
tragic
and
terrible
dénouement
. Carriages
were
seen
on
their
street
only
for
weddings
and
funerals
. Here
was
neither
marriage
nor
death
: therefore
, it
was
something
transcending
experience
and
well
worth
waiting
for
.
Martin
had
been
wild
to
see
Ruth
. His
was
essentially
a
love-nature
,
and
he
possessed
more
than
the
average
man’s
need
for
sympathy
. He
was
starving
for
sympathy
, which
, with
him
, meant
intelligent
understanding
; and
he
had
yet
to
learn
that
Ruth’s
sympathy
was
largely
sentimental
and
tactful
, and
that
it
proceeded
from
gentleness
of
nature
rather
than
from
understanding
of
the
objects
of
her
sympathy
.
So
it
was
while
Martin
held
her
hand
and
gladly
talked
, that
her
love
for
him
prompted
her
to
press
his
hand
in
return
, and
that
her
eyes
were
moist
and
luminous
at
sight
of
his
helplessness
and
of
the
marks
suffering
had
stamped
upon
his
face
.
But
while
he
told
her
of
his
two
acceptances
, of
his
despair
when
he
received
the
one
from
the
_Transcontinental_
, and
of
the
corresponding
delight
with
which
he
received
the
one
from
the
_White
Mouse_
, she
did
not
follow
him
. She
heard
the
words
he
uttered
and
understood
their
literal
import
, but
she
was
not
with
him
in
his
despair
and
his
delight
. She
could
not
get
out
of
herself
. She
was
not
interested
in
selling
stories
to
magazines
. What
was
important
to
her
was
matrimony
.
She
was
not
aware
of
it
, however
, any
more
than
she
was
aware
that
her
desire
that
Martin
take
a
position
was
the
instinctive
and
preparative
impulse
of
motherhood
. She
would
have
blushed
had
she
been
told
as
much
in
plain
, set
terms
, and
next
, she
might
have
grown
indignant
and
asserted
that
her
sole
interest
lay
in
the
man
she
loved
and
her
desire
for
him
to
make
the
best
of
himself
. So
, while
Martin
poured
out
his
heart
to
her
, elated
with
the
first
success
his
chosen
work
in
the
world
had
received
, she
paid
heed
to
his
bare
words
only
, gazing
now
and
again
about
the
room
, shocked
by
what
she
saw
.
For
the
first
time
Ruth
gazed
upon
the
sordid
face
of
poverty
. Starving
lovers
had
always
seemed
romantic
to
her
,—but
she
had
had
no
idea
how
starving
lovers
lived
. She
had
never
dreamed
it
could
be
like
this
.
Ever
her
gaze
shifted
from
the
room
to
him
and
back
again
. The
steamy
smell
of
dirty
clothes
, which
had
entered
with
her
from
the
kitchen
,
was
sickening
. Martin
must
be
soaked
with
it
, Ruth
concluded
, if
that
awful
woman
washed
frequently
. Such
was
the
contagiousness
of
degradation
. When
she
looked
at
Martin
, she
seemed
to
see
the
smirch
left
upon
him
by
his
surroundings
. She
had
never
seen
him
unshaven
, and
the
three
days’
growth
of
beard
on
his
face
was
repulsive
to
her
. Not
alone
did
it
give
him
the
same
dark
and
murky
aspect
of
the
Silva
house
, inside
and
out
, but
it
seemed
to
emphasize
that
animal-like
strength
of
his
which
she
detested
. And
here
he
was
, being
confirmed
in
his
madness
by
the
two
acceptances
he
took
such
pride
in
telling
her
about
. A
little
longer
and
he
would
have
surrendered
and
gone
to
work
.
Now
he
would
continue
on
in
this
horrible
house
, writing
and
starving
for
a
few
more
months
.
“What
is
that
smell
?”
she
asked
suddenly
.
“Some
of
Maria’s
washing
smells
, I
imagine
,”
was
the
answer
. “I
am
growing
quite
accustomed
to
them
.”
“No
, no
; not
that
. It
is
something
else
. A
stale
, sickish
smell
.”
Martin
sampled
the
air
before
replying
.
“I
can’t
smell
anything
else
, except
stale
tobacco
smoke
,”
he
announced
.
“That’s
it
. It
is
terrible
. Why
do
you
smoke
so
much
, Martin
?”
“I
don’t
know
, except
that
I
smoke
more
than
usual
when
I
am
lonely
.
And
then
, too
, it’s
such
a
long-standing
habit
. I
learned
when
I
was
only
a
youngster
.”
“It
is
not
a
nice
habit
, you
know
,”
she
reproved
. “It
smells
to
heaven
.”
“That’s
the
fault
of
the
tobacco
. I
can
afford
only
the
cheapest
. But
wait
until
I
get
that
forty-dollar
check
. I’ll
use
a
brand
that
is
not
offensive
even
to
the
angels
. But
that
wasn’t
so
bad
, was
it
, two
acceptances
in
three
days
? That
forty-five
dollars
will
pay
about
all
my
debts
.”
“For
two
years’
work
?”
she
queried
.
“No
, for
less
than
a
week’s
work
. Please
pass
me
that
book
over
on
the
far
corner
of
the
table
, the
account
book
with
the
gray
cover
.”
He
opened
it
and
began
turning
over
the
pages
rapidly
. “Yes
, I
was
right
.
Four
days
for
‘The
Ring
of
Bells
,’
two
days
for
‘The
Whirlpool
.’
That’s
forty-five
dollars
for
a
week’s
work
, one
hundred
and
eighty
dollars
a
month
. That
beats
any
salary
I
can
command
. And
, besides
, I’m
just
beginning
. A
thousand
dollars
a
month
is
not
too
much
to
buy
for
you
all
I
want
you
to
have
. A
salary
of
five
hundred
a
month
would
be
too
small
. That
forty-five
dollars
is
just
a
starter
. Wait
till
I
get
my
stride
. Then
watch
my
smoke
.”
Ruth
misunderstood
his
slang
, and
reverted
to
cigarettes
.
“You
smoke
more
than
enough
as
it
is
, and
the
brand
of
tobacco
will
make
no
difference
. It
is
the
smoking
itself
that
is
not
nice
, no
matter
what
the
brand
may
be
. You
are
a
chimney
, a
living
volcano
, a
perambulating
smoke-stack
, and
you
are
a
perfect
disgrace
, Martin
dear
,
you
know
you
are
.”
She
leaned
toward
him
, entreaty
in
her
eyes
, and
as
he
looked
at
her
delicate
face
and
into
her
pure
, limpid
eyes
, as
of
old
he
was
struck
with
his
own
unworthiness
.
“I
wish
you
wouldn’t
smoke
any
more
,”
she
whispered
. “Please
, for—my
sake
.”
“All
right
, I
won’t
,”
he
cried
. “I’ll
do
anything
you
ask
, dear
love
,
anything
; you
know
that
.”
A
great
temptation
assailed
her
. In
an
insistent
way
she
had
caught
glimpses
of
the
large
, easy-going
side
of
his
nature
, and
she
felt
sure
, if
she
asked
him
to
cease
attempting
to
write
, that
he
would
grant
her
wish
. In
the
swift
instant
that
elapsed
, the
words
trembled
on
her
lips
. But
she
did
not
utter
them
. She
was
not
quite
brave
enough
; she
did
not
quite
dare
. Instead
, she
leaned
toward
him
to
meet
him
, and
in
his
arms
murmured
:-
“You
know
, it
is
really
not
for
my
sake
, Martin
, but
for
your
own
. I
am
sure
smoking
hurts
you
; and
besides
, it
is
not
good
to
be
a
slave
to
anything
, to
a
drug
least
of
all
.”
“I
shall
always
be
your
slave
,”
he
smiled
.
“In
which
case
, I
shall
begin
issuing
my
commands
.”
She
looked
at
him
mischievously
, though
deep
down
she
was
already
regretting
that
she
had
not
preferred
her
largest
request
.
“I
live
but
to
obey
, your
majesty
.”
“Well
, then
, my
first
commandment
is
, Thou
shalt
not
omit
to
shave
every
day
. Look
how
you
have
scratched
my
cheek
.”
And
so
it
ended
in
caresses
and
love-laughter
. But
she
had
made
one
point
, and
she
could
not
expect
to
make
more
than
one
at
a
time
. She
felt
a
woman’s
pride
in
that
she
had
made
him
stop
smoking
. Another
time
she
would
persuade
him
to
take
a
position
, for
had
he
not
said
he
would
do
anything
she
asked
?
She
left
his
side
to
explore
the
room
, examining
the
clothes-lines
of
notes
overhead
, learning
the
mystery
of
the
tackle
used
for
suspending
his
wheel
under
the
ceiling
, and
being
saddened
by
the
heap
of
manuscripts
under
the
table
which
represented
to
her
just
so
much
wasted
time
. The
oil-stove
won
her
admiration
, but
on
investigating
the
food
shelves
she
found
them
empty
.
“Why
, you
haven’t
anything
to
eat
, you
poor
dear
,”
she
said
with
tender
compassion
. “You
must
be
starving
.”
“I
store
my
food
in
Maria’s
safe
and
in
her
pantry
,”
he
lied
. “It
keeps
better
there
. No
danger
of
my
starving
. Look
at
that
.”
She
had
come
back
to
his
side
, and
she
saw
him
double
his
arm
at
the
elbow
, the
biceps
crawling
under
his
shirt-sleeve
and
swelling
into
a
knot
of
muscle
, heavy
and
hard
. The
sight
repelled
her
. Sentimentally
,
she
disliked
it
. But
her
pulse
, her
blood
, every
fibre
of
her
, loved
it
and
yearned
for
it
, and
, in
the
old
, inexplicable
way
, she
leaned
toward
him
, not
away
from
him
. And
in
the
moment
that
followed
, when
he
crushed
her
in
his
arms
, the
brain
of
her
, concerned
with
the
superficial
aspects
of
life
, was
in
revolt
; while
the
heart
of
her
, the
woman
of
her
, concerned
with
life
itself
, exulted
triumphantly
. It
was
in
moments
like
this
that
she
felt
to
the
uttermost
the
greatness
of
her
love
for
Martin
, for
it
was
almost
a
swoon
of
delight
to
her
to
feel
his
strong
arms
about
her
, holding
her
tightly
, hurting
her
with
the
grip
of
their
fervor
. At
such
moments
she
found
justification
for
her
treason
to
her
standards
, for
her
violation
of
her
own
high
ideals
,
and
, most
of
all
, for
her
tacit
disobedience
to
her
mother
and
father
.
They
did
not
want
her
to
marry
this
man
. It
shocked
them
that
she
should
love
him
. It
shocked
her
, too
, sometimes
, when
she
was
apart
from
him
, a
cool
and
reasoning
creature
. With
him
, she
loved
him—in
truth
, at
times
a
vexed
and
worried
love
; but
love
it
was
, a
love
that
was
stronger
than
she
.
“This
La
Grippe
is
nothing
,”
he
was
saying
. “It
hurts
a
bit
, and
gives
one
a
nasty
headache
, but
it
doesn’t
compare
with
break-bone
fever
.”
“Have
you
had
that
, too
?”
she
queried
absently
, intent
on
the
heaven-sent
justification
she
was
finding
in
his
arms
.
And
so
, with
absent
queries
, she
led
him
on
, till
suddenly
his
words
startled
her
.
He
had
had
the
fever
in
a
secret
colony
of
thirty
lepers
on
one
of
the
Hawaiian
Islands
.
“But
why
did
you
go
there
?”
she
demanded
.
Such
royal
carelessness
of
body
seemed
criminal
.
“Because
I
didn’t
know
,”
he
answered
. “I
never
dreamed
of
lepers
. When
I
deserted
the
schooner
and
landed
on
the
beach
, I
headed
inland
for
some
place
of
hiding
. For
three
days
I
lived
off
guavas
, _ohia_-apples
,
and
bananas
, all
of
which
grew
wild
in
the
jungle
. On
the
fourth
day
I
found
the
trail—a
mere
foot-trail
. It
led
inland
, and
it
led
up
. It
was
the
way
I
wanted
to
go
, and
it
showed
signs
of
recent
travel
. At
one
place
it
ran
along
the
crest
of
a
ridge
that
was
no
more
than
a
knife-edge
. The
trail
wasn’t
three
feet
wide
on
the
crest
, and
on
either
side
the
ridge
fell
away
in
precipices
hundreds
of
feet
deep
.
One
man
, with
plenty
of
ammunition
, could
have
held
it
against
a
hundred
thousand
.
“It
was
the
only
way
in
to
the
hiding-place
. Three
hours
after
I
found
the
trail
I
was
there
, in
a
little
mountain
valley
, a
pocket
in
the
midst
of
lava
peaks
. The
whole
place
was
terraced
for
taro-patches
,
fruit
trees
grew
there
, and
there
were
eight
or
ten
grass
huts
. But
as
soon
as
I
saw
the
inhabitants
I
knew
what
I’d
struck
. One
sight
of
them
was
enough
.”
“What
did
you
do
?”
Ruth
demanded
breathlessly
, listening
, like
any
Desdemona
, appalled
and
fascinated
.
“Nothing
for
me
to
do
. Their
leader
was
a
kind
old
fellow
, pretty
far
gone
, but
he
ruled
like
a
king
. He
had
discovered
the
little
valley
and
founded
the
settlement—all
of
which
was
against
the
law
. But
he
had
guns
, plenty
of
ammunition
, and
those
Kanakas
, trained
to
the
shooting
of
wild
cattle
and
wild
pig
, were
dead
shots
. No
, there
wasn’t
any
running
away
for
Martin
Eden
. He
stayed—for
three
months
.”
“But
how
did
you
escape
?”
“I’d
have
been
there
yet
, if
it
hadn’t
been
for
a
girl
there
, a
half-Chinese
, quarter-white
, and
quarter-Hawaiian
. She
was
a
beauty
,
poor
thing
, and
well
educated
. Her
mother
, in
Honolulu
, was
worth
a
million
or
so
. Well
, this
girl
got
me
away
at
last
. Her
mother
financed
the
settlement
, you
see
, so
the
girl
wasn’t
afraid
of
being
punished
for
letting
me
go
. But
she
made
me
swear
, first
, never
to
reveal
the
hiding-place
; and
I
never
have
. This
is
the
first
time
I
have
even
mentioned
it
. The
girl
had
just
the
first
signs
of
leprosy
. The
fingers
of
her
right
hand
were
slightly
twisted
, and
there
was
a
small
spot
on
her
arm
. That
was
all
. I
guess
she
is
dead
, now
.”
“But
weren’t
you
frightened
? And
weren’t
you
glad
to
get
away
without
catching
that
dreadful
disease
?”
“Well
,”
he
confessed
, “I
was
a
bit
shivery
at
first
; but
I
got
used
to
it
. I
used
to
feel
sorry
for
that
poor
girl
, though
. That
made
me
forget
to
be
afraid
. She
was
such
a
beauty
, in
spirit
as
well
as
in
appearance
, and
she
was
only
slightly
touched
; yet
she
was
doomed
to
lie
there
, living
the
life
of
a
primitive
savage
and
rotting
slowly
away
. Leprosy
is
far
more
terrible
than
you
can
imagine
it
.”
“Poor
thing
,”
Ruth
murmured
softly
. “It’s
a
wonder
she
let
you
get
away
.”
“How
do
you
mean
?”
Martin
asked
unwittingly
.
“Because
she
must
have
loved
you
,”
Ruth
said
, still
softly
. “Candidly
,
now
, didn’t
she
?”
Martin’s
sunburn
had
been
bleached
by
his
work
in
the
laundry
and
by
the
indoor
life
he
was
living
, while
the
hunger
and
the
sickness
had
made
his
face
even
pale
; and
across
this
pallor
flowed
the
slow
wave
of
a
blush
. He
was
opening
his
mouth
to
speak
, but
Ruth
shut
him
off
.
“Never
mind
, don’t
answer
; it’s
not
necessary
,”
she
laughed
.
But
it
seemed
to
him
there
was
something
metallic
in
her
laughter
, and
that
the
light
in
her
eyes
was
cold
. On
the
spur
of
the
moment
it
reminded
him
of
a
gale
he
had
once
experienced
in
the
North
Pacific
.
And
for
the
moment
the
apparition
of
the
gale
rose
before
his
eyes—a
gale
at
night
, with
a
clear
sky
and
under
a
full
moon
, the
huge
seas
glinting
coldly
in
the
moonlight
. Next
, he
saw
the
girl
in
the
leper
refuge
and
remembered
it
was
for
love
of
him
that
she
had
let
him
go
.
“She
was
noble
,”
he
said
simply
. “She
gave
me
life
.”
That
was
all
of
the
incident
, but
he
heard
Ruth
muffle
a
dry
sob
in
her
throat
, and
noticed
that
she
turned
her
face
away
to
gaze
out
of
the
window
. When
she
turned
it
back
to
him
, it
was
composed
, and
there
was
no
hint
of
the
gale
in
her
eyes
.
“I’m
such
a
silly
,”
she
said
plaintively
. “But
I
can’t
help
it
. I
do
so
love
you
, Martin
, I
do
, I
do
. I
shall
grow
more
catholic
in
time
, but
at
present
I
can’t
help
being
jealous
of
those
ghosts
of
the
past
, and
you
know
your
past
is
full
of
ghosts
.”
“It
must
be
,”
she
silenced
his
protest
. “It
could
not
be
otherwise
. And
there’s
poor
Arthur
motioning
me
to
come
. He’s
tired
waiting
. And
now
good-by
, dear
.”
“There’s
some
kind
of
a
mixture
, put
up
by
the
druggists
, that
helps
men
to
stop
the
use
of
tobacco
,”
she
called
back
from
the
door
, “and
I
am
going
to
send
you
some
.”
The
door
closed
, but
opened
again
.
“I
do
, I
do
,”
she
whispered
to
him
; and
this
time
she
was
really
gone
.
Maria
, with
worshipful
eyes
that
none
the
less
were
keen
to
note
the
texture
of
Ruth’s
garments
and
the
cut
of
them
(a
cut
unknown
that
produced
an
effect
mysteriously
beautiful)
, saw
her
to
the
carriage
.
The
crowd
of
disappointed
urchins
stared
till
the
carriage
disappeared
from
view
, then
transferred
their
stare
to
Maria
, who
had
abruptly
become
the
most
important
person
on
the
street
. But
it
was
one
of
her
progeny
who
blasted
Maria’s
reputation
by
announcing
that
the
grand
visitors
had
been
for
her
lodger
. After
that
Maria
dropped
back
into
her
old
obscurity
and
Martin
began
to
notice
the
respectful
manner
in
which
he
was
regarded
by
the
small
fry
of
the
neighborhood
. As
for
Maria
, Martin
rose
in
her
estimation
a
full
hundred
per
cent
, and
had
the
Portuguese
grocer
witnessed
that
afternoon
carriage-call
he
would
have
allowed
Martin
an
additional
three-dollars-and-eighty-five-cents’
worth
of
credit
.
CHAPTER
XXVII
.
The
sun
of
Martin’s
good
fortune
rose
. The
day
after
Ruth’s
visit
, he
received
a
check
for
three
dollars
from
a
New
York
scandal
weekly
in
payment
for
three
of
his
triolets
. Two
days
later
a
newspaper
published
in
Chicago
accepted
his
“Treasure
Hunters
,”
promising
to
pay
ten
dollars
for
it
on
publication
. The
price
was
small
, but
it
was
the
first
article
he
had
written
, his
very
first
attempt
to
express
his
thought
on
the
printed
page
. To
cap
everything
, the
adventure
serial
for
boys
, his
second
attempt
, was
accepted
before
the
end
of
the
week
by
a
juvenile
monthly
calling
itself
_Youth
and
Age_
. It
was
true
the
serial
was
twenty-one
thousand
words
, and
they
offered
to
pay
him
sixteen
dollars
on
publication
, which
was
something
like
seventy-five
cents
a
thousand
words
; but
it
was
equally
true
that
it
was
the
second
thing
he
had
attempted
to
write
and
that
he
was
himself
thoroughly
aware
of
its
clumsy
worthlessness
.
But
even
his
earliest
efforts
were
not
marked
with
the
clumsiness
of
mediocrity
. What
characterized
them
was
the
clumsiness
of
too
great
strength—the
clumsiness
which
the
tyro
betrays
when
he
crushes
butterflies
with
battering
rams
and
hammers
out
vignettes
with
a
war-club
. So
it
was
that
Martin
was
glad
to
sell
his
early
efforts
for
songs
. He
knew
them
for
what
they
were
, and
it
had
not
taken
him
long
to
acquire
this
knowledge
. What
he
pinned
his
faith
to
was
his
later
work
. He
had
striven
to
be
something
more
than
a
mere
writer
of
magazine
fiction
. He
had
sought
to
equip
himself
with
the
tools
of
artistry
. On
the
other
hand
, he
had
not
sacrificed
strength
. His
conscious
aim
had
been
to
increase
his
strength
by
avoiding
excess
of
strength
. Nor
had
he
departed
from
his
love
of
reality
. His
work
was
realism
, though
he
had
endeavored
to
fuse
with
it
the
fancies
and
beauties
of
imagination
. What
he
sought
was
an
impassioned
realism
,
shot
through
with
human
aspiration
and
faith
. What
he
wanted
was
life
as
it
was
, with
all
its
spirit-groping
and
soul-reaching
left
in
.
He
had
discovered
, in
the
course
of
his
reading
, two
schools
of
fiction
. One
treated
of
man
as
a
god
, ignoring
his
earthly
origin
; the
other
treated
of
man
as
a
clod
, ignoring
his
heaven-sent
dreams
and
divine
possibilities
. Both
the
god
and
the
clod
schools
erred
, in
Martin’s
estimation
, and
erred
through
too
great
singleness
of
sight
and
purpose
. There
was
a
compromise
that
approximated
the
truth
, though
it
flattered
not
the
school
of
god
, while
it
challenged
the
brute-savageness
of
the
school
of
clod
. It
was
his
story
, “Adventure
,”
which
had
dragged
with
Ruth
, that
Martin
believed
had
achieved
his
ideal
of
the
true
in
fiction
; and
it
was
in
an
essay
, “God
and
Clod
,”
that
he
had
expressed
his
views
on
the
whole
general
subject
.
But
“Adventure
,”
and
all
that
he
deemed
his
best
work
, still
went
begging
among
the
editors
. His
early
work
counted
for
nothing
in
his
eyes
except
for
the
money
it
brought
, and
his
horror
stories
, two
of
which
he
had
sold
, he
did
not
consider
high
work
nor
his
best
work
. To
him
they
were
frankly
imaginative
and
fantastic
, though
invested
with
all
the
glamour
of
the
real
, wherein
lay
their
power
. This
investiture
of
the
grotesque
and
impossible
with
reality
, he
looked
upon
as
a
trick—a
skilful
trick
at
best
. Great
literature
could
not
reside
in
such
a
field
. Their
artistry
was
high
, but
he
denied
the
worthwhileness
of
artistry
when
divorced
from
humanness
. The
trick
had
been
to
fling
over
the
face
of
his
artistry
a
mask
of
humanness
, and
this
he
had
done
in
the
half-dozen
or
so
stories
of
the
horror
brand
he
had
written
before
he
emerged
upon
the
high
peaks
of
“Adventure
,”
“Joy
,”
“The
Pot
,”
and
“The
Wine
of
Life
.”
The
three
dollars
he
received
for
the
triolets
he
used
to
eke
out
a
precarious
existence
against
the
arrival
of
the
_White
Mouse_
check
. He
cashed
the
first
check
with
the
suspicious
Portuguese
grocer
, paying
a
dollar
on
account
and
dividing
the
remaining
two
dollars
between
the
baker
and
the
fruit
store
. Martin
was
not
yet
rich
enough
to
afford
meat
, and
he
was
on
slim
allowance
when
the
_White
Mouse_
check
arrived
. He
was
divided
on
the
cashing
of
it
. He
had
never
been
in
a
bank
in
his
life
, much
less
been
in
one
on
business
, and
he
had
a
naive
and
childlike
desire
to
walk
into
one
of
the
big
banks
down
in
Oakland
and
fling
down
his
indorsed
check
for
forty
dollars
. On
the
other
hand
,
practical
common
sense
ruled
that
he
should
cash
it
with
his
grocer
and
thereby
make
an
impression
that
would
later
result
in
an
increase
of
credit
. Reluctantly
Martin
yielded
to
the
claims
of
the
grocer
, paying
his
bill
with
him
in
full
, and
receiving
in
change
a
pocketful
of
jingling
coin
. Also
, he
paid
the
other
tradesmen
in
full
, redeemed
his
suit
and
his
bicycle
, paid
one
month’s
rent
on
the
type-writer
, and
paid
Maria
the
overdue
month
for
his
room
and
a
month
in
advance
. This
left
him
in
his
pocket
, for
emergencies
, a
balance
of
nearly
three
dollars
.
In
itself
, this
small
sum
seemed
a
fortune
. Immediately
on
recovering
his
clothes
he
had
gone
to
see
Ruth
, and
on
the
way
he
could
not
refrain
from
jingling
the
little
handful
of
silver
in
his
pocket
. He
had
been
so
long
without
money
that
, like
a
rescued
starving
man
who
cannot
let
the
unconsumed
food
out
of
his
sight
, Martin
could
not
keep
his
hand
off
the
silver
. He
was
not
mean
, nor
avaricious
, but
the
money
meant
more
than
so
many
dollars
and
cents
. It
stood
for
success
, and
the
eagles
stamped
upon
the
coins
were
to
him
so
many
winged
victories
.
It
came
to
him
insensibly
that
it
was
a
very
good
world
. It
certainly
appeared
more
beautiful
to
him
. For
weeks
it
had
been
a
very
dull
and
sombre
world
; but
now
, with
nearly
all
debts
paid
, three
dollars
jingling
in
his
pocket
, and
in
his
mind
the
consciousness
of
success
,
the
sun
shone
bright
and
warm
, and
even
a
rain-squall
that
soaked
unprepared
pedestrians
seemed
a
merry
happening
to
him
. When
he
starved
, his
thoughts
had
dwelt
often
upon
the
thousands
he
knew
were
starving
the
world
over
; but
now
that
he
was
feasted
full
, the
fact
of
the
thousands
starving
was
no
longer
pregnant
in
his
brain
. He
forgot
about
them
, and
, being
in
love
, remembered
the
countless
lovers
in
the
world
. Without
deliberately
thinking
about
it
, _motifs_
for
love-lyrics
began
to
agitate
his
brain
. Swept
away
by
the
creative
impulse
, he
got
off
the
electric
car
, without
vexation
, two
blocks
beyond
his
crossing
.
He
found
a
number
of
persons
in
the
Morse
home
. Ruth’s
two
girl-cousins
were
visiting
her
from
San
Rafael
, and
Mrs
. Morse
, under
pretext
of
entertaining
them
, was
pursuing
her
plan
of
surrounding
Ruth
with
young
people
. The
campaign
had
begun
during
Martin’s
enforced
absence
, and
was
already
in
full
swing
. She
was
making
a
point
of
having
at
the
house
men
who
were
doing
things
. Thus
, in
addition
to
the
cousins
Dorothy
and
Florence
, Martin
encountered
two
university
professors
, one
of
Latin
, the
other
of
English
; a
young
army
officer
just
back
from
the
Philippines
, one-time
school-mate
of
Ruth’s
; a
young
fellow
named
Melville
, private
secretary
to
Joseph
Perkins
, head
of
the
San
Francisco
Trust
Company
; and
finally
of
the
men
, a
live
bank
cashier
,
Charles
Hapgood
, a
youngish
man
of
thirty-five
, graduate
of
Stanford
University
, member
of
the
Nile
Club
and
the
Unity
Club
, and
a
conservative
speaker
for
the
Republican
Party
during
campaigns—in
short
, a
rising
young
man
in
every
way
. Among
the
women
was
one
who
painted
portraits
, another
who
was
a
professional
musician
, and
still
another
who
possessed
the
degree
of
Doctor
of
Sociology
and
who
was
locally
famous
for
her
social
settlement
work
in
the
slums
of
San
Francisco
. But
the
women
did
not
count
for
much
in
Mrs
. Morse’s
plan
.
At
the
best
, they
were
necessary
accessories
. The
men
who
did
things
must
be
drawn
to
the
house
somehow
.
“Don’t
get
excited
when
you
talk
,”
Ruth
admonished
Martin
, before
the
ordeal
of
introduction
began
.
He
bore
himself
a
bit
stiffly
at
first
, oppressed
by
a
sense
of
his
own
awkwardness
, especially
of
his
shoulders
, which
were
up
to
their
old
trick
of
threatening
destruction
to
furniture
and
ornaments
. Also
, he
was
rendered
self-conscious
by
the
company
. He
had
never
before
been
in
contact
with
such
exalted
beings
nor
with
so
many
of
them
. Melville
,
the
bank
cashier
, fascinated
him
, and
he
resolved
to
investigate
him
at
the
first
opportunity
. For
underneath
Martin’s
awe
lurked
his
assertive
ego
, and
he
felt
the
urge
to
measure
himself
with
these
men
and
women
and
to
find
out
what
they
had
learned
from
the
books
and
life
which
he
had
not
learned
.
Ruth’s
eyes
roved
to
him
frequently
to
see
how
he
was
getting
on
, and
she
was
surprised
and
gladdened
by
the
ease
with
which
he
got
acquainted
with
her
cousins
. He
certainly
did
not
grow
excited
, while
being
seated
removed
from
him
the
worry
of
his
shoulders
. Ruth
knew
them
for
clever
girls
, superficially
brilliant
, and
she
could
scarcely
understand
their
praise
of
Martin
later
that
night
at
going
to
bed
. But
he
, on
the
other
hand
, a
wit
in
his
own
class
, a
gay
quizzer
and
laughter-maker
at
dances
and
Sunday
picnics
, had
found
the
making
of
fun
and
the
breaking
of
good-natured
lances
simple
enough
in
this
environment
. And
on
this
evening
success
stood
at
his
back
, patting
him
on
the
shoulder
and
telling
him
that
he
was
making
good
, so
that
he
could
afford
to
laugh
and
make
laughter
and
remain
unabashed
.
Later
, Ruth’s
anxiety
found
justification
. Martin
and
Professor
Caldwell
had
got
together
in
a
conspicuous
corner
, and
though
Martin
no
longer
wove
the
air
with
his
hands
, to
Ruth’s
critical
eye
he
permitted
his
own
eyes
to
flash
and
glitter
too
frequently
, talked
too
rapidly
and
warmly
, grew
too
intense
, and
allowed
his
aroused
blood
to
redden
his
cheeks
too
much
. He
lacked
decorum
and
control
, and
was
in
decided
contrast
to
the
young
professor
of
English
with
whom
he
talked
.
But
Martin
was
not
concerned
with
appearances
! He
had
been
swift
to
note
the
other’s
trained
mind
and
to
appreciate
his
command
of
knowledge
. Furthermore
, Professor
Caldwell
did
not
realize
Martin’s
concept
of
the
average
English
professor
. Martin
wanted
him
to
talk
shop
, and
, though
he
seemed
averse
at
first
, succeeded
in
making
him
do
it
. For
Martin
did
not
see
why
a
man
should
not
talk
shop
.
“It’s
absurd
and
unfair
,”
he
had
told
Ruth
weeks
before
, “this
objection
to
talking
shop
. For
what
reason
under
the
sun
do
men
and
women
come
together
if
not
for
the
exchange
of
the
best
that
is
in
them
? And
the
best
that
is
in
them
is
what
they
are
interested
in
, the
thing
by
which
they
make
their
living
, the
thing
they’ve
specialized
on
and
sat
up
days
and
nights
over
, and
even
dreamed
about
. Imagine
Mr
.
Butler
living
up
to
social
etiquette
and
enunciating
his
views
on
Paul
Verlaine
or
the
German
drama
or
the
novels
of
D’Annunzio
. We’d
be
bored
to
death
. I
, for
one
, if
I
must
listen
to
Mr
. Butler
, prefer
to
hear
him
talk
about
his
law
. It’s
the
best
that
is
in
him
, and
life
is
so
short
that
I
want
the
best
of
every
man
and
woman
I
meet
.”
“But
,”
Ruth
had
objected
, “there
are
the
topics
of
general
interest
to
all
.”
“There
, you
mistake
,”
he
had
rushed
on
. “All
persons
in
society
, all
cliques
in
society—or
, rather
, nearly
all
persons
and
cliques—ape
their
betters
. Now
, who
are
the
best
betters
? The
idlers
, the
wealthy
idlers
.
They
do
not
know
, as
a
rule
, the
things
known
by
the
persons
who
are
doing
something
in
the
world
. To
listen
to
conversation
about
such
things
would
mean
to
be
bored
, wherefore
the
idlers
decree
that
such
things
are
shop
and
must
not
be
talked
about
. Likewise
they
decree
the
things
that
are
not
shop
and
which
may
be
talked
about
, and
those
things
are
the
latest
operas
, latest
novels
, cards
, billiards
,
cocktails
, automobiles
, horse
shows
, trout
fishing
, tuna-fishing
,
big-game
shooting
, yacht
sailing
, and
so
forth—and
mark
you
, these
are
the
things
the
idlers
know
. In
all
truth
, they
constitute
the
shop-talk
of
the
idlers
. And
the
funniest
part
of
it
is
that
many
of
the
clever
people
, and
all
the
would-be
clever
people
, allow
the
idlers
so
to
impose
upon
them
. As
for
me
, I
want
the
best
a
man’s
got
in
him
, call
it
shop
vulgarity
or
anything
you
please
.”
And
Ruth
had
not
understood
. This
attack
of
his
on
the
established
had
seemed
to
her
just
so
much
wilfulness
of
opinion
.
So
Martin
contaminated
Professor
Caldwell
with
his
own
earnestness
,
challenging
him
to
speak
his
mind
. As
Ruth
paused
beside
them
she
heard
Martin
saying
:-
“You
surely
don’t
pronounce
such
heresies
in
the
University
of
California
?”
Professor
Caldwell
shrugged
his
shoulders
. “The
honest
taxpayer
and
the
politician
, you
know
. Sacramento
gives
us
our
appropriations
and
therefore
we
kowtow
to
Sacramento
, and
to
the
Board
of
Regents
, and
to
the
party
press
, or
to
the
press
of
both
parties
.”
“Yes
, that’s
clear
; but
how
about
you
?”
Martin
urged
. “You
must
be
a
fish
out
of
the
water
.”
“Few
like
me
, I
imagine
, in
the
university
pond
. Sometimes
I
am
fairly
sure
I
am
out
of
water
, and
that
I
should
belong
in
Paris
, in
Grub
Street
, in
a
hermit’s
cave
, or
in
some
sadly
wild
Bohemian
crowd
,
drinking
claret
,—dago-red
they
call
it
in
San
Francisco
,—dining
in
cheap
restaurants
in
the
Latin
Quarter
, and
expressing
vociferously
radical
views
upon
all
creation
. Really
, I
am
frequently
almost
sure
that
I
was
cut
out
to
be
a
radical
. But
then
, there
are
so
many
questions
on
which
I
am
not
sure
. I
grow
timid
when
I
am
face
to
face
with
my
human
frailty
, which
ever
prevents
me
from
grasping
all
the
factors
in
any
problem—human
, vital
problems
, you
know
.”
And
as
he
talked
on
, Martin
became
aware
that
to
his
own
lips
had
come
the
“Song
of
the
Trade
Wind”
:-
“I
am
strongest
at
noon
,
But
under
the
moon
I
stiffen
the
bunt
of
the
sail
.”
He
was
almost
humming
the
words
, and
it
dawned
upon
him
that
the
other
reminded
him
of
the
trade
wind
, of
the
Northeast
Trade
, steady
, and
cool
, and
strong
. He
was
equable
, he
was
to
be
relied
upon
, and
withal
there
was
a
certain
bafflement
about
him
. Martin
had
the
feeling
that
he
never
spoke
his
full
mind
, just
as
he
had
often
had
the
feeling
that
the
trades
never
blew
their
strongest
but
always
held
reserves
of
strength
that
were
never
used
. Martin’s
trick
of
visioning
was
active
as
ever
. His
brain
was
a
most
accessible
storehouse
of
remembered
fact
and
fancy
, and
its
contents
seemed
ever
ordered
and
spread
for
his
inspection
. Whatever
occurred
in
the
instant
present
, Martin’s
mind
immediately
presented
associated
antithesis
or
similitude
which
ordinarily
expressed
themselves
to
him
in
vision
. It
was
sheerly
automatic
, and
his
visioning
was
an
unfailing
accompaniment
to
the
living
present
. Just
as
Ruth’s
face
, in
a
momentary
jealousy
had
called
before
his
eyes
a
forgotten
moonlight
gale
, and
as
Professor
Caldwell
made
him
see
again
the
Northeast
Trade
herding
the
white
billows
across
the
purple
sea
, so
, from
moment
to
moment
, not
disconcerting
but
rather
identifying
and
classifying
, new
memory-visions
rose
before
him
, or
spread
under
his
eyelids
, or
were
thrown
upon
the
screen
of
his
consciousness
. These
visions
came
out
of
the
actions
and
sensations
of
the
past
, out
of
things
and
events
and
books
of
yesterday
and
last
week—a
countless
host
of
apparitions
that
, waking
or
sleeping
, forever
thronged
his
mind
.
So
it
was
, as
he
listened
to
Professor
Caldwell’s
easy
flow
of
speech—the
conversation
of
a
clever
, cultured
man—that
Martin
kept
seeing
himself
down
all
his
past
. He
saw
himself
when
he
had
been
quite
the
hoodlum
, wearing
a
“stiff-rim”
Stetson
hat
and
a
square-cut
,
double-breasted
coat
, with
a
certain
swagger
to
the
shoulders
and
possessing
the
ideal
of
being
as
tough
as
the
police
permitted
. He
did
not
disguise
it
to
himself
, nor
attempt
to
palliate
it
. At
one
time
in
his
life
he
had
been
just
a
common
hoodlum
, the
leader
of
a
gang
that
worried
the
police
and
terrorized
honest
, working-class
householders
.
But
his
ideals
had
changed
. He
glanced
about
him
at
the
well-bred
,
well-dressed
men
and
women
, and
breathed
into
his
lungs
the
atmosphere
of
culture
and
refinement
, and
at
the
same
moment
the
ghost
of
his
early
youth
, in
stiff-rim
and
square-cut
, with
swagger
and
toughness
,
stalked
across
the
room
. This
figure
, of
the
corner
hoodlum
, he
saw
merge
into
himself
, sitting
and
talking
with
an
actual
university
professor
.
For
, after
all
, he
had
never
found
his
permanent
abiding
place
. He
had
fitted
in
wherever
he
found
himself
, been
a
favorite
always
and
everywhere
by
virtue
of
holding
his
own
at
work
and
at
play
and
by
his
willingness
and
ability
to
fight
for
his
rights
and
command
respect
.
But
he
had
never
taken
root
. He
had
fitted
in
sufficiently
to
satisfy
his
fellows
but
not
to
satisfy
himself
. He
had
been
perturbed
always
by
a
feeling
of
unrest
, had
heard
always
the
call
of
something
from
beyond
, and
had
wandered
on
through
life
seeking
it
until
he
found
books
and
art
and
love
. And
here
he
was
, in
the
midst
of
all
this
, the
only
one
of
all
the
comrades
he
had
adventured
with
who
could
have
made
themselves
eligible
for
the
inside
of
the
Morse
home
.
But
such
thoughts
and
visions
did
not
prevent
him
from
following
Professor
Caldwell
closely
. And
as
he
followed
, comprehendingly
and
critically
, he
noted
the
unbroken
field
of
the
other’s
knowledge
. As
for
himself
, from
moment
to
moment
the
conversation
showed
him
gaps
and
open
stretches
, whole
subjects
with
which
he
was
unfamiliar
.
Nevertheless
, thanks
to
his
Spencer
, he
saw
that
he
possessed
the
outlines
of
the
field
of
knowledge
. It
was
a
matter
only
of
time
, when
he
would
fill
in
the
outline
. Then
watch
out
, he
thought—’ware
shoal
,
everybody
! He
felt
like
sitting
at
the
feet
of
the
professor
,
worshipful
and
absorbent
; but
, as
he
listened
, he
began
to
discern
a
weakness
in
the
other’s
judgments—a
weakness
so
stray
and
elusive
that
he
might
not
have
caught
it
had
it
not
been
ever
present
. And
when
he
did
catch
it
, he
leapt
to
equality
at
once
.
Ruth
came
up
to
them
a
second
time
, just
as
Martin
began
to
speak
.
“I’ll
tell
you
where
you
are
wrong
, or
, rather
, what
weakens
your
judgments
,”
he
said
. “You
lack
biology
. It
has
no
place
in
your
scheme
of
things
.—Oh
, I
mean
the
real
interpretative
biology
, from
the
ground
up
, from
the
laboratory
and
the
test-tube
and
the
vitalized
inorganic
right
on
up
to
the
widest
aesthetic
and
sociological
generalizations
.”
Ruth
was
appalled
. She
had
sat
two
lecture
courses
under
Professor
Caldwell
and
looked
up
to
him
as
the
living
repository
of
all
knowledge
.
“I
scarcely
follow
you
,”
he
said
dubiously
.
Martin
was
not
so
sure
but
what
he
had
followed
him
.
“Then
I’ll
try
to
explain
,”
he
said
. “I
remember
reading
in
Egyptian
history
something
to
the
effect
that
understanding
could
not
be
had
of
Egyptian
art
without
first
studying
the
land
question
.”
“Quite
right
,”
the
professor
nodded
.
“And
it
seems
to
me
,”
Martin
continued
, “that
knowledge
of
the
land
question
, in
turn
, of
all
questions
, for
that
matter
, cannot
be
had
without
previous
knowledge
of
the
stuff
and
the
constitution
of
life
.
How
can
we
understand
laws
and
institutions
, religions
and
customs
,
without
understanding
, not
merely
the
nature
of
the
creatures
that
made
them
, but
the
nature
of
the
stuff
out
of
which
the
creatures
are
made
?
Is
literature
less
human
than
the
architecture
and
sculpture
of
Egypt
?
Is
there
one
thing
in
the
known
universe
that
is
not
subject
to
the
law
of
evolution
?—Oh
, I
know
there
is
an
elaborate
evolution
of
the
various
arts
laid
down
, but
it
seems
to
me
to
be
too
mechanical
. The
human
himself
is
left
out
. The
evolution
of
the
tool
, of
the
harp
, of
music
and
song
and
dance
, are
all
beautifully
elaborated
; but
how
about
the
evolution
of
the
human
himself
, the
development
of
the
basic
and
intrinsic
parts
that
were
in
him
before
he
made
his
first
tool
or
gibbered
his
first
chant
? It
is
that
which
you
do
not
consider
, and
which
I
call
biology
. It
is
biology
in
its
largest
aspects
.
“I
know
I
express
myself
incoherently
, but
I’ve
tried
to
hammer
out
the
idea
. It
came
to
me
as
you
were
talking
, so
I
was
not
primed
and
ready
to
deliver
it
. You
spoke
yourself
of
the
human
frailty
that
prevented
one
from
taking
all
the
factors
into
consideration
. And
you
, in
turn
,—or
so
it
seems
to
me
,—leave
out
the
biological
factor
, the
very
stuff
out
of
which
has
been
spun
the
fabric
of
all
the
arts
, the
warp
and
the
woof
of
all
human
actions
and
achievements
.”
To
Ruth’s
amazement
, Martin
was
not
immediately
crushed
, and
that
the
professor
replied
in
the
way
he
did
struck
her
as
forbearance
for
Martin’s
youth
. Professor
Caldwell
sat
for
a
full
minute
, silent
and
fingering
his
watch
chain
.
“Do
you
know
,”
he
said
at
last
, “I’ve
had
that
same
criticism
passed
on
me
once
before—by
a
very
great
man
, a
scientist
and
evolutionist
,
Joseph
Le
Conte
. But
he
is
dead
, and
I
thought
to
remain
undetected
;
and
now
you
come
along
and
expose
me
. Seriously
, though—and
this
is
confession—I
think
there
is
something
in
your
contention—a
great
deal
,
in
fact
. I
am
too
classical
, not
enough
up-to-date
in
the
interpretative
branches
of
science
, and
I
can
only
plead
the
disadvantages
of
my
education
and
a
temperamental
slothfulness
that
prevents
me
from
doing
the
work
. I
wonder
if
you’ll
believe
that
I’ve
never
been
inside
a
physics
or
chemistry
laboratory
? It
is
true
,
nevertheless
. Le
Conte
was
right
, and
so
are
you
, Mr
. Eden
, at
least
to
an
extent—how
much
I
do
not
know
.”
Ruth
drew
Martin
away
with
her
on
a
pretext
; when
she
had
got
him
aside
, whispering
:-
“You
shouldn’t
have
monopolized
Professor
Caldwell
that
way
. There
may
be
others
who
want
to
talk
with
him
.”
“My
mistake
,”
Martin
admitted
contritely
. “But
I’d
got
him
stirred
up
,
and
he
was
so
interesting
that
I
did
not
think
. Do
you
know
, he
is
the
brightest
, the
most
intellectual
, man
I
have
ever
talked
with
. And
I’ll
tell
you
something
else
. I
once
thought
that
everybody
who
went
to
universities
, or
who
sat
in
the
high
places
in
society
, was
just
as
brilliant
and
intelligent
as
he
.”
“He’s
an
exception
,”
she
answered
.
“I
should
say
so
. Whom
do
you
want
me
to
talk
to
now
?—Oh
, say
, bring
me
up
against
that
cashier-fellow
.”
Martin
talked
for
fifteen
minutes
with
him
, nor
could
Ruth
have
wished
better
behavior
on
her
lover’s
part
. Not
once
did
his
eyes
flash
nor
his
cheeks
flush
, while
the
calmness
and
poise
with
which
he
talked
surprised
her
. But
in
Martin’s
estimation
the
whole
tribe
of
bank
cashiers
fell
a
few
hundred
per
cent
, and
for
the
rest
of
the
evening
he
labored
under
the
impression
that
bank
cashiers
and
talkers
of
platitudes
were
synonymous
phrases
. The
army
officer
he
found
good-natured
and
simple
, a
healthy
, wholesome
young
fellow
, content
to
occupy
the
place
in
life
into
which
birth
and
luck
had
flung
him
. On
learning
that
he
had
completed
two
years
in
the
university
, Martin
was
puzzled
to
know
where
he
had
stored
it
away
. Nevertheless
Martin
liked
him
better
than
the
platitudinous
bank
cashier
.
“I
really
don’t
object
to
platitudes
,”
he
told
Ruth
later
; “but
what
worries
me
into
nervousness
is
the
pompous
, smugly
complacent
, superior
certitude
with
which
they
are
uttered
and
the
time
taken
to
do
it
. Why
,
I
could
give
that
man
the
whole
history
of
the
Reformation
in
the
time
he
took
to
tell
me
that
the
Union-Labor
Party
had
fused
with
the
Democrats
. Do
you
know
, he
skins
his
words
as
a
professional
poker-player
skins
the
cards
that
are
dealt
out
to
him
. Some
day
I’ll
show
you
what
I
mean
.”
“I’m
sorry
you
don’t
like
him
,”
was
her
reply
. “He’s
a
favorite
of
Mr
.
Butler’s
. Mr
. Butler
says
he
is
safe
and
honest—calls
him
the
Rock
,
Peter
, and
says
that
upon
him
any
banking
institution
can
well
be
built
.”
“I
don’t
doubt
it—from
the
little
I
saw
of
him
and
the
less
I
heard
from
him
; but
I
don’t
think
so
much
of
banks
as
I
did
. You
don’t
mind
my
speaking
my
mind
this
way
, dear
?”
“No
, no
; it
is
most
interesting
.”
“Yes
,”
Martin
went
on
heartily
, “I’m
no
more
than
a
barbarian
getting
my
first
impressions
of
civilization
. Such
impressions
must
be
entertainingly
novel
to
the
civilized
person
.”
“What
did
you
think
of
my
cousins
?”
Ruth
queried
.
“I
liked
them
better
than
the
other
women
. There’s
plenty
of
fun
in
them
along
with
paucity
of
pretence
.”
“Then
you
did
like
the
other
women
?”
He
shook
his
head
.
“That
social-settlement
woman
is
no
more
than
a
sociological
poll-parrot
. I
swear
, if
you
winnowed
her
out
between
the
stars
, like
Tomlinson
, there
would
be
found
in
her
not
one
original
thought
. As
for
the
portrait-painter
, she
was
a
positive
bore
. She’d
make
a
good
wife
for
the
cashier
. And
the
musician
woman
! I
don’t
care
how
nimble
her
fingers
are
, how
perfect
her
technique
, how
wonderful
her
expression—the
fact
is
, she
knows
nothing
about
music
.”
“She
plays
beautifully
,”
Ruth
protested
.
“Yes
, she’s
undoubtedly
gymnastic
in
the
externals
of
music
, but
the
intrinsic
spirit
of
music
is
unguessed
by
her
. I
asked
her
what
music
meant
to
her—you
know
I’m
always
curious
to
know
that
particular
thing
;
and
she
did
not
know
what
it
meant
to
her
, except
that
she
adored
it
,
that
it
was
the
greatest
of
the
arts
, and
that
it
meant
more
than
life
to
her
.”
“You
were
making
them
talk
shop
,”
Ruth
charged
him
.
“I
confess
it
. And
if
they
were
failures
on
shop
, imagine
my
sufferings
if
they
had
discoursed
on
other
subjects
. Why
, I
used
to
think
that
up
here
, where
all
the
advantages
of
culture
were
enjoyed—”
He
paused
for
a
moment
, and
watched
the
youthful
shade
of
himself
, in
stiff-rim
and
square-cut
, enter
the
door
and
swagger
across
the
room
. “As
I
was
saying
, up
here
I
thought
all
men
and
women
were
brilliant
and
radiant
.
But
now
, from
what
little
I’ve
seen
of
them
, they
strike
me
as
a
pack
of
ninnies
, most
of
them
, and
ninety
percent
of
the
remainder
as
bores
.
Now
there’s
Professor
Caldwell—he’s
different
. He’s
a
man
, every
inch
of
him
and
every
atom
of
his
gray
matter
.”
Ruth’s
face
brightened
.
“Tell
me
about
him
,”
she
urged
. “Not
what
is
large
and
brilliant—I
know
those
qualities
; but
whatever
you
feel
is
adverse
. I
am
most
curious
to
know
.”
“Perhaps
I’ll
get
myself
in
a
pickle
.”
Martin
debated
humorously
for
a
moment
. “Suppose
you
tell
me
first
. Or
maybe
you
find
in
him
nothing
less
than
the
best
.”
“I
attended
two
lecture
courses
under
him
, and
I
have
known
him
for
two
years
; that
is
why
I
am
anxious
for
your
first
impression
.”
“Bad
impression
, you
mean
? Well
, here
goes
. He
is
all
the
fine
things
you
think
about
him
, I
guess
. At
least
, he
is
the
finest
specimen
of
intellectual
man
I
have
met
; but
he
is
a
man
with
a
secret
shame
.”
“Oh
, no
, no
!”
he
hastened
to
cry
. “Nothing
paltry
nor
vulgar
. What
I
mean
is
that
he
strikes
me
as
a
man
who
has
gone
to
the
bottom
of
things
, and
is
so
afraid
of
what
he
saw
that
he
makes
believe
to
himself
that
he
never
saw
it
. Perhaps
that’s
not
the
clearest
way
to
express
it
. Here’s
another
way
. A
man
who
has
found
the
path
to
the
hidden
temple
but
has
not
followed
it
; who
has
, perhaps
, caught
glimpses
of
the
temple
and
striven
afterward
to
convince
himself
that
it
was
only
a
mirage
of
foliage
. Yet
another
way
. A
man
who
could
have
done
things
but
who
placed
no
value
on
the
doing
, and
who
, all
the
time
, in
his
innermost
heart
, is
regretting
that
he
has
not
done
them
;
who
has
secretly
laughed
at
the
rewards
for
doing
, and
yet
, still
more
secretly
, has
yearned
for
the
rewards
and
for
the
joy
of
doing
.”
“I
don’t
read
him
that
way
,”
she
said
. “And
for
that
matter
, I
don’t
see
just
what
you
mean
.”
“It
is
only
a
vague
feeling
on
my
part
,”
Martin
temporized
. “I
have
no
reason
for
it
. It
is
only
a
feeling
, and
most
likely
it
is
wrong
. You
certainly
should
know
him
better
than
I
.”
From
the
evening
at
Ruth’s
Martin
brought
away
with
him
strange
confusions
and
conflicting
feelings
. He
was
disappointed
in
his
goal
,
in
the
persons
he
had
climbed
to
be
with
. On
the
other
hand
, he
was
encouraged
with
his
success
. The
climb
had
been
easier
than
he
expected
. He
was
superior
to
the
climb
, and
(he
did
not
, with
false
modesty
, hide
it
from
himself)
he
was
superior
to
the
beings
among
whom
he
had
climbed—with
the
exception
, of
course
, of
Professor
Caldwell
.
About
life
and
the
books
he
knew
more
than
they
, and
he
wondered
into
what
nooks
and
crannies
they
had
cast
aside
their
educations
. He
did
not
know
that
he
was
himself
possessed
of
unusual
brain
vigor
; nor
did
he
know
that
the
persons
who
were
given
to
probing
the
depths
and
to
thinking
ultimate
thoughts
were
not
to
be
found
in
the
drawing
rooms
of
the
world’s
Morses
; nor
did
he
dream
that
such
persons
were
as
lonely
eagles
sailing
solitary
in
the
azure
sky
far
above
the
earth
and
its
swarming
freight
of
gregarious
life
.
CHAPTER
XXVIII
.
But
success
had
lost
Martin’s
address
, and
her
messengers
no
longer
came
to
his
door
. For
twenty-five
days
, working
Sundays
and
holidays
,
he
toiled
on
“The
Shame
of
the
Sun
,”
a
long
essay
of
some
thirty
thousand
words
. It
was
a
deliberate
attack
on
the
mysticism
of
the
Maeterlinck
school—an
attack
from
the
citadel
of
positive
science
upon
the
wonder-dreamers
, but
an
attack
nevertheless
that
retained
much
of
beauty
and
wonder
of
the
sort
compatible
with
ascertained
fact
. It
was
a
little
later
that
he
followed
up
the
attack
with
two
short
essays
,
“The
Wonder-Dreamers”
and
“The
Yardstick
of
the
Ego
.”
And
on
essays
,
long
and
short
, he
began
to
pay
the
travelling
expenses
from
magazine
to
magazine
.
During
the
twenty-five
days
spent
on
“The
Shame
of
the
Sun
,”
he
sold
hack-work
to
the
extent
of
six
dollars
and
fifty
cents
. A
joke
had
brought
in
fifty
cents
, and
a
second
one
, sold
to
a
high-grade
comic
weekly
, had
fetched
a
dollar
. Then
two
humorous
poems
had
earned
two
dollars
and
three
dollars
respectively
. As
a
result
, having
exhausted
his
credit
with
the
tradesmen
(though
he
had
increased
his
credit
with
the
grocer
to
five
dollars)
, his
wheel
and
suit
of
clothes
went
back
to
the
pawnbroker
. The
type-writer
people
were
again
clamoring
for
money
,
insistently
pointing
out
that
according
to
the
agreement
rent
was
to
be
paid
strictly
in
advance
.
Encouraged
by
his
several
small
sales
, Martin
went
back
to
hack-work
.
Perhaps
there
was
a
living
in
it
, after
all
. Stored
away
under
his
table
were
the
twenty
storiettes
which
had
been
rejected
by
the
newspaper
short-story
syndicate
. He
read
them
over
in
order
to
find
out
how
not
to
write
newspaper
storiettes
, and
so
doing
, reasoned
out
the
perfect
formula
. He
found
that
the
newspaper
storiette
should
never
be
tragic
, should
never
end
unhappily
, and
should
never
contain
beauty
of
language
, subtlety
of
thought
, nor
real
delicacy
of
sentiment
.
Sentiment
it
must
contain
, plenty
of
it
, pure
and
noble
, of
the
sort
that
in
his
own
early
youth
had
brought
his
applause
from
“nigger
heaven”—the
“For-God-my-country-and-the-Czar”
and
“I-may-be-poor-but-I-am-honest”
brand
of
sentiment
.
Having
learned
such
precautions
, Martin
consulted
“The
Duchess”
for
tone
, and
proceeded
to
mix
according
to
formula
. The
formula
consists
of
three
parts
: (1)
a
pair
of
lovers
are
jarred
apart
; (2)
by
some
deed
or
event
they
are
reunited
; (3)
marriage
bells
. The
third
part
was
an
unvarying
quantity
, but
the
first
and
second
parts
could
be
varied
an
infinite
number
of
times
. Thus
, the
pair
of
lovers
could
be
jarred
apart
by
misunderstood
motives
, by
accident
of
fate
, by
jealous
rivals
,
by
irate
parents
, by
crafty
guardians
, by
scheming
relatives
, and
so
forth
and
so
forth
; they
could
be
reunited
by
a
brave
deed
of
the
man
lover
, by
a
similar
deed
of
the
woman
lover
, by
change
of
heart
in
one
lover
or
the
other
, by
forced
confession
of
crafty
guardian
, scheming
relative
, or
jealous
rival
, by
voluntary
confession
of
same
, by
discovery
of
some
unguessed
secret
, by
lover
storming
girl’s
heart
, by
lover
making
long
and
noble
self-sacrifice
, and
so
on
, endlessly
. It
was
very
fetching
to
make
the
girl
propose
in
the
course
of
being
reunited
, and
Martin
discovered
, bit
by
bit
, other
decidedly
piquant
and
fetching
ruses
. But
marriage
bells
at
the
end
was
the
one
thing
he
could
take
no
liberties
with
; though
the
heavens
rolled
up
as
a
scroll
and
the
stars
fell
, the
wedding
bells
must
go
on
ringing
just
the
same
.
In
quantity
, the
formula
prescribed
twelve
hundred
words
minimum
dose
,
fifteen
hundred
words
maximum
dose
.
Before
he
got
very
far
along
in
the
art
of
the
storiette
, Martin
worked
out
half
a
dozen
stock
forms
, which
he
always
consulted
when
constructing
storiettes
. These
forms
were
like
the
cunning
tables
used
by
mathematicians
, which
may
be
entered
from
top
, bottom
, right
, and
left
, which
entrances
consist
of
scores
of
lines
and
dozens
of
columns
,
and
from
which
may
be
drawn
, without
reasoning
or
thinking
, thousands
of
different
conclusions
, all
unchallengably
precise
and
true
. Thus
, in
the
course
of
half
an
hour
with
his
forms
, Martin
could
frame
up
a
dozen
or
so
storiettes
, which
he
put
aside
and
filled
in
at
his
convenience
. He
found
that
he
could
fill
one
in
, after
a
day
of
serious
work
, in
the
hour
before
going
to
bed
. As
he
later
confessed
to
Ruth
,
he
could
almost
do
it
in
his
sleep
. The
real
work
was
in
constructing
the
frames
, and
that
was
merely
mechanical
.
He
had
no
doubt
whatever
of
the
efficacy
of
his
formula
, and
for
once
he
knew
the
editorial
mind
when
he
said
positively
to
himself
that
the
first
two
he
sent
off
would
bring
checks
. And
checks
they
brought
, for
four
dollars
each
, at
the
end
of
twelve
days
.
In
the
meantime
he
was
making
fresh
and
alarming
discoveries
concerning
the
magazines
. Though
the
_Transcontinental_
had
published
“The
Ring
of
Bells
,”
no
check
was
forthcoming
. Martin
needed
it
, and
he
wrote
for
it
. An
evasive
answer
and
a
request
for
more
of
his
work
was
all
he
received
. He
had
gone
hungry
two
days
waiting
for
the
reply
, and
it
was
then
that
he
put
his
wheel
back
in
pawn
. He
wrote
regularly
, twice
a
week
, to
the
_Transcontinental_
for
his
five
dollars
, though
it
was
only
semi-occasionally
that
he
elicited
a
reply
. He
did
not
know
that
the
_Transcontinental_
had
been
staggering
along
precariously
for
years
, that
it
was
a
fourth-rater
, or
tenth-rater
, without
standing
,
with
a
crazy
circulation
that
partly
rested
on
petty
bullying
and
partly
on
patriotic
appealing
, and
with
advertisements
that
were
scarcely
more
than
charitable
donations
. Nor
did
he
know
that
the
_Transcontinental_
was
the
sole
livelihood
of
the
editor
and
the
business
manager
, and
that
they
could
wring
their
livelihood
out
of
it
only
by
moving
to
escape
paying
rent
and
by
never
paying
any
bill
they
could
evade
. Nor
could
he
have
guessed
that
the
particular
five
dollars
that
belonged
to
him
had
been
appropriated
by
the
business
manager
for
the
painting
of
his
house
in
Alameda
, which
painting
he
performed
himself
, on
week-day
afternoons
, because
he
could
not
afford
to
pay
union
wages
and
because
the
first
scab
he
had
employed
had
had
a
ladder
jerked
out
from
under
him
and
been
sent
to
the
hospital
with
a
broken
collar-bone
.
The
ten
dollars
for
which
Martin
had
sold
“Treasure
Hunters”
to
the
Chicago
newspaper
did
not
come
to
hand
. The
article
had
been
published
,
as
he
had
ascertained
at
the
file
in
the
Central
Reading-room
, but
no
word
could
he
get
from
the
editor
. His
letters
were
ignored
. To
satisfy
himself
that
they
had
been
received
, he
registered
several
of
them
. It
was
nothing
less
than
robbery
, he
concluded—a
cold-blooded
steal
; while
he
starved
, he
was
pilfered
of
his
merchandise
, of
his
goods
, the
sale
of
which
was
the
sole
way
of
getting
bread
to
eat
.
_Youth
and
Age_
was
a
weekly
, and
it
had
published
two-thirds
of
his
twenty-one-thousand-word
serial
when
it
went
out
of
business
. With
it
went
all
hopes
of
getting
his
sixteen
dollars
.
To
cap
the
situation
, “The
Pot
,”
which
he
looked
upon
as
one
of
the
best
things
he
had
written
, was
lost
to
him
. In
despair
, casting
about
frantically
among
the
magazines
, he
had
sent
it
to
_The
Billow_
, a
society
weekly
in
San
Francisco
. His
chief
reason
for
submitting
it
to
that
publication
was
that
, having
only
to
travel
across
the
bay
from
Oakland
, a
quick
decision
could
be
reached
. Two
weeks
later
he
was
overjoyed
to
see
, in
the
latest
number
on
the
news-stand
, his
story
printed
in
full
, illustrated
, and
in
the
place
of
honor
. He
went
home
with
leaping
pulse
, wondering
how
much
they
would
pay
him
for
one
of
the
best
things
he
had
done
. Also
, the
celerity
with
which
it
had
been
accepted
and
published
was
a
pleasant
thought
to
him
. That
the
editor
had
not
informed
him
of
the
acceptance
made
the
surprise
more
complete
.
After
waiting
a
week
, two
weeks
, and
half
a
week
longer
, desperation
conquered
diffidence
, and
he
wrote
to
the
editor
of
_The
Billow_
,
suggesting
that
possibly
through
some
negligence
of
the
business
manager
his
little
account
had
been
overlooked
.
Even
if
it
isn’t
more
than
five
dollars
, Martin
thought
to
himself
, it
will
buy
enough
beans
and
pea-soup
to
enable
me
to
write
half
a
dozen
like
it
, and
possibly
as
good
.
Back
came
a
cool
letter
from
the
editor
that
at
least
elicited
Martin’s
admiration
.
“We
thank
you
,”
it
ran
, “for
your
excellent
contribution
. All
of
us
in
the
office
enjoyed
it
immensely
, and
, as
you
see
, it
was
given
the
place
of
honor
and
immediate
publication
. We
earnestly
hope
that
you
liked
the
illustrations
.
“On
rereading
your
letter
it
seems
to
us
that
you
are
laboring
under
the
misapprehension
that
we
pay
for
unsolicited
manuscripts
. This
is
not
our
custom
, and
of
course
yours
was
unsolicited
. We
assumed
,
naturally
, when
we
received
your
story
, that
you
understood
the
situation
. We
can
only
deeply
regret
this
unfortunate
misunderstanding
,
and
assure
you
of
our
unfailing
regard
. Again
, thanking
you
for
your
kind
contribution
, and
hoping
to
receive
more
from
you
in
the
near
future
, we
remain
, etc
.”
There
was
also
a
postscript
to
the
effect
that
though
_The
Billow_
carried
no
free-list
, it
took
great
pleasure
in
sending
him
a
complimentary
subscription
for
the
ensuing
year
.
After
that
experience
, Martin
typed
at
the
top
of
the
first
sheet
of
all
his
manuscripts
: “Submitted
at
your
usual
rate
.”
Some
day
, he
consoled
himself
, they
will
be
submitted
at
_my_
usual
rate
.
He
discovered
in
himself
, at
this
period
, a
passion
for
perfection
,
under
the
sway
of
which
he
rewrote
and
polished
“The
Jostling
Street
,”
“The
Wine
of
Life
,”
“Joy
,”
the
“Sea
Lyrics
,”
and
others
of
his
earlier
work
. As
of
old
, nineteen
hours
of
labor
a
day
was
all
too
little
to
suit
him
. He
wrote
prodigiously
, and
he
read
prodigiously
, forgetting
in
his
toil
the
pangs
caused
by
giving
up
his
tobacco
. Ruth’s
promised
cure
for
the
habit
, flamboyantly
labelled
, he
stowed
away
in
the
most
inaccessible
corner
of
his
bureau
. Especially
during
his
stretches
of
famine
he
suffered
from
lack
of
the
weed
; but
no
matter
how
often
he
mastered
the
craving
, it
remained
with
him
as
strong
as
ever
. He
regarded
it
as
the
biggest
thing
he
had
ever
achieved
. Ruth’s
point
of
view
was
that
he
was
doing
no
more
than
was
right
. She
brought
him
the
anti-tobacco
remedy
, purchased
out
of
her
glove
money
, and
in
a
few
days
forgot
all
about
it
.
His
machine-made
storiettes
, though
he
hated
them
and
derided
them
,
were
successful
. By
means
of
them
he
redeemed
all
his
pledges
, paid
most
of
his
bills
, and
bought
a
new
set
of
tires
for
his
wheel
. The
storiettes
at
least
kept
the
pot
a-boiling
and
gave
him
time
for
ambitious
work
; while
the
one
thing
that
upheld
him
was
the
forty
dollars
he
had
received
from
_The
White
Mouse_
. He
anchored
his
faith
to
that
, and
was
confident
that
the
really
first-class
magazines
would
pay
an
unknown
writer
at
least
an
equal
rate
, if
not
a
better
one
. But
the
thing
was
, how
to
get
into
the
first-class
magazines
. His
best
stories
, essays
, and
poems
went
begging
among
them
, and
yet
, each
month
, he
read
reams
of
dull
, prosy
, inartistic
stuff
between
all
their
various
covers
. If
only
one
editor
, he
sometimes
thought
, would
descend
from
his
high
seat
of
pride
to
write
me
one
cheering
line
! No
matter
if
my
work
is
unusual
, no
matter
if
it
is
unfit
, for
prudential
reasons
,
for
their
pages
, surely
there
must
be
some
sparks
in
it
, somewhere
, a
few
, to
warm
them
to
some
sort
of
appreciation
. And
thereupon
he
would
get
out
one
or
another
of
his
manuscripts
, such
as
“Adventure
,”
and
read
it
over
and
over
in
a
vain
attempt
to
vindicate
the
editorial
silence
.
As
the
sweet
California
spring
came
on
, his
period
of
plenty
came
to
an
end
. For
several
weeks
he
had
been
worried
by
a
strange
silence
on
the
part
of
the
newspaper
storiette
syndicate
. Then
, one
day
, came
back
to
him
through
the
mail
ten
of
his
immaculate
machine-made
storiettes
.
They
were
accompanied
by
a
brief
letter
to
the
effect
that
the
syndicate
was
overstocked
, and
that
some
months
would
elapse
before
it
would
be
in
the
market
again
for
manuscripts
. Martin
had
even
been
extravagant
on
the
strength
of
those
ten
storiettes
. Toward
the
last
the
syndicate
had
been
paying
him
five
dollars
each
for
them
and
accepting
every
one
he
sent
. So
he
had
looked
upon
the
ten
as
good
as
sold
, and
he
had
lived
accordingly
, on
a
basis
of
fifty
dollars
in
the
bank
. So
it
was
that
he
entered
abruptly
upon
a
lean
period
, wherein
he
continued
selling
his
earlier
efforts
to
publications
that
would
not
pay
and
submitting
his
later
work
to
magazines
that
would
not
buy
.
Also
, he
resumed
his
trips
to
the
pawn-broker
down
in
Oakland
. A
few
jokes
and
snatches
of
humorous
verse
, sold
to
the
New
York
weeklies
,
made
existence
barely
possible
for
him
. It
was
at
this
time
that
he
wrote
letters
of
inquiry
to
the
several
great
monthly
and
quarterly
reviews
, and
learned
in
reply
that
they
rarely
considered
unsolicited
articles
, and
that
most
of
their
contents
were
written
upon
order
by
well-known
specialists
who
were
authorities
in
their
various
fields
.
CHAPTER
XXIX
.
It
was
a
hard
summer
for
Martin
. Manuscript
readers
and
editors
were
away
on
vacation
, and
publications
that
ordinarily
returned
a
decision
in
three
weeks
now
retained
his
manuscript
for
three
months
or
more
.
The
consolation
he
drew
from
it
was
that
a
saving
in
postage
was
effected
by
the
deadlock
. Only
the
robber-publications
seemed
to
remain
actively
in
business
, and
to
them
Martin
disposed
of
all
his
early
efforts
, such
as
“Pearl-diving
,”
“The
Sea
as
a
Career
,”
“Turtle-catching
,”
and
“The
Northeast
Trades
.”
For
these
manuscripts
he
never
received
a
penny
. It
is
true
, after
six
months’
correspondence
,
he
effected
a
compromise
, whereby
he
received
a
safety
razor
for
“Turtle-catching
,”
and
that
_The
Acropolis_
, having
agreed
to
give
him
five
dollars
cash
and
five
yearly
subscriptions
: for
“The
Northeast
Trades
,”
fulfilled
the
second
part
of
the
agreement
.
For
a
sonnet
on
Stevenson
he
managed
to
wring
two
dollars
out
of
a
Boston
editor
who
was
running
a
magazine
with
a
Matthew
Arnold
taste
and
a
penny-dreadful
purse
. “The
Peri
and
the
Pearl
,”
a
clever
skit
of
a
poem
of
two
hundred
lines
, just
finished
, white
hot
from
his
brain
,
won
the
heart
of
the
editor
of
a
San
Francisco
magazine
published
in
the
interest
of
a
great
railroad
. When
the
editor
wrote
, offering
him
payment
in
transportation
, Martin
wrote
back
to
inquire
if
the
transportation
was
transferable
. It
was
not
, and
so
, being
prevented
from
peddling
it
, he
asked
for
the
return
of
the
poem
. Back
it
came
,
with
the
editor’s
regrets
, and
Martin
sent
it
to
San
Francisco
again
,
this
time
to
_The
Hornet_
, a
pretentious
monthly
that
had
been
fanned
into
a
constellation
of
the
first
magnitude
by
the
brilliant
journalist
who
founded
it
. But
_The
Hornet’s_
light
had
begun
to
dim
long
before
Martin
was
born
. The
editor
promised
Martin
fifteen
dollars
for
the
poem
, but
, when
it
was
published
, seemed
to
forget
about
it
. Several
of
his
letters
being
ignored
, Martin
indicted
an
angry
one
which
drew
a
reply
. It
was
written
by
a
new
editor
, who
coolly
informed
Martin
that
he
declined
to
be
held
responsible
for
the
old
editor’s
mistakes
, and
that
he
did
not
think
much
of
“The
Peri
and
the
Pearl”
anyway
.
But
_The
Globe_
, a
Chicago
magazine
, gave
Martin
the
most
cruel
treatment
of
all
. He
had
refrained
from
offering
his
“Sea
Lyrics”
for
publication
, until
driven
to
it
by
starvation
. After
having
been
rejected
by
a
dozen
magazines
, they
had
come
to
rest
in
_The
Globe_
office
. There
were
thirty
poems
in
the
collection
, and
he
was
to
receive
a
dollar
apiece
for
them
. The
first
month
four
were
published
,
and
he
promptly
received
a
cheek
for
four
dollars
; but
when
he
looked
over
the
magazine
, he
was
appalled
at
the
slaughter
. In
some
cases
the
titles
had
been
altered
: “Finis
,”
for
instance
, being
changed
to
“The
Finish
,”
and
“The
Song
of
the
Outer
Reef”
to
“The
Song
of
the
Coral
Reef
.”
In
one
case
, an
absolutely
different
title
, a
misappropriate
title
, was
substituted
. In
place
of
his
own
, “Medusa
Lights
,”
the
editor
had
printed
, “The
Backward
Track
.”
But
the
slaughter
in
the
body
of
the
poems
was
terrifying
. Martin
groaned
and
sweated
and
thrust
his
hands
through
his
hair
. Phrases
, lines
, and
stanzas
were
cut
out
,
interchanged
, or
juggled
about
in
the
most
incomprehensible
manner
.
Sometimes
lines
and
stanzas
not
his
own
were
substituted
for
his
. He
could
not
believe
that
a
sane
editor
could
be
guilty
of
such
maltreatment
, and
his
favorite
hypothesis
was
that
his
poems
must
have
been
doctored
by
the
office
boy
or
the
stenographer
. Martin
wrote
immediately
, begging
the
editor
to
cease
publishing
the
lyrics
and
to
return
them
to
him
.
He
wrote
again
and
again
, begging
, entreating
, threatening
, but
his
letters
were
ignored
. Month
by
month
the
slaughter
went
on
till
the
thirty
poems
were
published
, and
month
by
month
he
received
a
check
for
those
which
had
appeared
in
the
current
number
.
Despite
these
various
misadventures
, the
memory
of
the
_White
Mouse_
forty-dollar
check
sustained
him
, though
he
was
driven
more
and
more
to
hack-work
. He
discovered
a
bread-and-butter
field
in
the
agricultural
weeklies
and
trade
journals
, though
among
the
religious
weeklies
he
found
he
could
easily
starve
. At
his
lowest
ebb
, when
his
black
suit
was
in
pawn
, he
made
a
ten-strike—or
so
it
seemed
to
him—in
a
prize
contest
arranged
by
the
County
Committee
of
the
Republican
Party
. There
were
three
branches
of
the
contest
, and
he
entered
them
all
, laughing
at
himself
bitterly
the
while
in
that
he
was
driven
to
such
straits
to
live
. His
poem
won
the
first
prize
of
ten
dollars
, his
campaign
song
the
second
prize
of
five
dollars
, his
essay
on
the
principles
of
the
Republican
Party
the
first
prize
of
twenty-five
dollars
. Which
was
very
gratifying
to
him
until
he
tried
to
collect
. Something
had
gone
wrong
in
the
County
Committee
, and
, though
a
rich
banker
and
a
state
senator
were
members
of
it
, the
money
was
not
forthcoming
. While
this
affair
was
hanging
fire
, he
proved
that
he
understood
the
principles
of
the
Democratic
Party
by
winning
the
first
prize
for
his
essay
in
a
similar
contest
. And
, moreover
, he
received
the
money
, twenty-five
dollars
. But
the
forty
dollars
won
in
the
first
contest
he
never
received
.
Driven
to
shifts
in
order
to
see
Ruth
, and
deciding
that
the
long
walk
from
north
Oakland
to
her
house
and
back
again
consumed
too
much
time
,
he
kept
his
black
suit
in
pawn
in
place
of
his
bicycle
. The
latter
gave
him
exercise
, saved
him
hours
of
time
for
work
, and
enabled
him
to
see
Ruth
just
the
same
. A
pair
of
knee
duck
trousers
and
an
old
sweater
made
him
a
presentable
wheel
costume
, so
that
he
could
go
with
Ruth
on
afternoon
rides
. Besides
, he
no
longer
had
opportunity
to
see
much
of
her
in
her
own
home
, where
Mrs
. Morse
was
thoroughly
prosecuting
her
campaign
of
entertainment
. The
exalted
beings
he
met
there
, and
to
whom
he
had
looked
up
but
a
short
time
before
, now
bored
him
. They
were
no
longer
exalted
. He
was
nervous
and
irritable
, what
of
his
hard
times
,
disappointments
, and
close
application
to
work
, and
the
conversation
of
such
people
was
maddening
. He
was
not
unduly
egotistic
. He
measured
the
narrowness
of
their
minds
by
the
minds
of
the
thinkers
in
the
books
he
read
. At
Ruth’s
home
he
never
met
a
large
mind
, with
the
exception
of
Professor
Caldwell
, and
Caldwell
he
had
met
there
only
once
. As
for
the
rest
, they
were
numskulls
, ninnies
, superficial
, dogmatic
, and
ignorant
. It
was
their
ignorance
that
astounded
him
. What
was
the
matter
with
them
? What
had
they
done
with
their
educations
? They
had
had
access
to
the
same
books
he
had
. How
did
it
happen
that
they
had
drawn
nothing
from
them
?
He
knew
that
the
great
minds
, the
deep
and
rational
thinkers
, existed
.
He
had
his
proofs
from
the
books
, the
books
that
had
educated
him
beyond
the
Morse
standard
. And
he
knew
that
higher
intellects
than
those
of
the
Morse
circle
were
to
be
found
in
the
world
. He
read
English
society
novels
, wherein
he
caught
glimpses
of
men
and
women
talking
politics
and
philosophy
. And
he
read
of
salons
in
great
cities
,
even
in
the
United
States
, where
art
and
intellect
congregated
.
Foolishly
, in
the
past
, he
had
conceived
that
all
well-groomed
persons
above
the
working
class
were
persons
with
power
of
intellect
and
vigor
of
beauty
. Culture
and
collars
had
gone
together
, to
him
, and
he
had
been
deceived
into
believing
that
college
educations
and
mastery
were
the
same
things
.
Well
, he
would
fight
his
way
on
and
up
higher
. And
he
would
take
Ruth
with
him
. Her
he
dearly
loved
, and
he
was
confident
that
she
would
shine
anywhere
. As
it
was
clear
to
him
that
he
had
been
handicapped
by
his
early
environment
, so
now
he
perceived
that
she
was
similarly
handicapped
. She
had
not
had
a
chance
to
expand
. The
books
on
her
father’s
shelves
, the
paintings
on
the
walls
, the
music
on
the
piano—all
was
just
so
much
meretricious
display
. To
real
literature
,
real
painting
, real
music
, the
Morses
and
their
kind
, were
dead
. And
bigger
than
such
things
was
life
, of
which
they
were
densely
,
hopelessly
ignorant
. In
spite
of
their
Unitarian
proclivities
and
their
masks
of
conservative
broadmindedness
, they
were
two
generations
behind
interpretative
science
: their
mental
processes
were
mediaeval
, while
their
thinking
on
the
ultimate
data
of
existence
and
of
the
universe
struck
him
as
the
same
metaphysical
method
that
was
as
young
as
the
youngest
race
, as
old
as
the
cave-man
, and
older—the
same
that
moved
the
first
Pleistocene
ape-man
to
fear
the
dark
; that
moved
the
first
hasty
Hebrew
savage
to
incarnate
Eve
from
Adam’s
rib
; that
moved
Descartes
to
build
an
idealistic
system
of
the
universe
out
of
the
projections
of
his
own
puny
ego
; and
that
moved
the
famous
British
ecclesiastic
to
denounce
evolution
in
satire
so
scathing
as
to
win
immediate
applause
and
leave
his
name
a
notorious
scrawl
on
the
page
of
history
.
So
Martin
thought
, and
he
thought
further
, till
it
dawned
upon
him
that
the
difference
between
these
lawyers
, officers
, business
men
, and
bank
cashiers
he
had
met
and
the
members
of
the
working
class
he
had
known
was
on
a
par
with
the
difference
in
the
food
they
ate
, clothes
they
wore
, neighborhoods
in
which
they
lived
. Certainly
, in
all
of
them
was
lacking
the
something
more
which
he
found
in
himself
and
in
the
books
.
The
Morses
had
shown
him
the
best
their
social
position
could
produce
,
and
he
was
not
impressed
by
it
. A
pauper
himself
, a
slave
to
the
money-lender
, he
knew
himself
the
superior
of
those
he
met
at
the
Morses’
; and
, when
his
one
decent
suit
of
clothes
was
out
of
pawn
, he
moved
among
them
a
lord
of
life
, quivering
with
a
sense
of
outrage
akin
to
what
a
prince
would
suffer
if
condemned
to
live
with
goat-herds
.
“You
hate
and
fear
the
socialists
,”
he
remarked
to
Mr
. Morse
, one
evening
at
dinner
; “but
why
? You
know
neither
them
nor
their
doctrines
.”
The
conversation
had
been
swung
in
that
direction
by
Mrs
. Morse
, who
had
been
invidiously
singing
the
praises
of
Mr
. Hapgood
. The
cashier
was
Martin’s
black
beast
, and
his
temper
was
a
trifle
short
where
the
talker
of
platitudes
was
concerned
.
“Yes
,”
he
had
said
, “Charley
Hapgood
is
what
they
call
a
rising
young
man—somebody
told
me
as
much
. And
it
is
true
. He’ll
make
the
Governor’s
Chair
before
he
dies
, and
, who
knows
? maybe
the
United
States
Senate
.”
“What
makes
you
think
so
?”
Mrs
. Morse
had
inquired
.
“I’ve
heard
him
make
a
campaign
speech
. It
was
so
cleverly
stupid
and
unoriginal
, and
also
so
convincing
, that
the
leaders
cannot
help
but
regard
him
as
safe
and
sure
, while
his
platitudes
are
so
much
like
the
platitudes
of
the
average
voter
that—oh
, well
, you
know
you
flatter
any
man
by
dressing
up
his
own
thoughts
for
him
and
presenting
them
to
him
.”
“I
actually
think
you
are
jealous
of
Mr
. Hapgood
,”
Ruth
had
chimed
in
.
“Heaven
forbid
!”
The
look
of
horror
on
Martin’s
face
stirred
Mrs
. Morse
to
belligerence
.
“You
surely
don’t
mean
to
say
that
Mr
. Hapgood
is
stupid
?”
she
demanded
icily
.
“No
more
than
the
average
Republican
,”
was
the
retort
, “or
average
Democrat
, either
. They
are
all
stupid
when
they
are
not
crafty
, and
very
few
of
them
are
crafty
. The
only
wise
Republicans
are
the
millionnaires
and
their
conscious
henchmen
. They
know
which
side
their
bread
is
buttered
on
, and
they
know
why
.”
“I
am
a
Republican
,”
Mr
. Morse
put
in
lightly
. “Pray
, how
do
you
classify
me
?”
“Oh
, you
are
an
unconscious
henchman
.”
“Henchman
?”
“Why
, yes
. You
do
corporation
work
. You
have
no
working-class
nor
criminal
practice
. You
don’t
depend
upon
wife-beaters
and
pickpockets
for
your
income
. You
get
your
livelihood
from
the
masters
of
society
,
and
whoever
feeds
a
man
is
that
man’s
master
. Yes
, you
are
a
henchman
.
You
are
interested
in
advancing
the
interests
of
the
aggregations
of
capital
you
serve
.”
Mr
. Morse’s
face
was
a
trifle
red
.
“I
confess
, sir
,”
he
said
, “that
you
talk
like
a
scoundrelly
socialist
.”
Then
it
was
that
Martin
made
his
remark
:
“You
hate
and
fear
the
socialists
; but
why
? You
know
neither
them
nor
their
doctrines
.”
“Your
doctrine
certainly
sounds
like
socialism
,”
Mr
. Morse
replied
,
while
Ruth
gazed
anxiously
from
one
to
the
other
, and
Mrs
. Morse
beamed
happily
at
the
opportunity
afforded
of
rousing
her
liege
lord’s
antagonism
.
“Because
I
say
Republicans
are
stupid
, and
hold
that
liberty
, equality
,
and
fraternity
are
exploded
bubbles
, does
not
make
me
a
socialist
,”
Martin
said
with
a
smile
. “Because
I
question
Jefferson
and
the
unscientific
Frenchmen
who
informed
his
mind
, does
not
make
me
a
socialist
. Believe
me
, Mr
. Morse
, you
are
far
nearer
socialism
than
I
who
am
its
avowed
enemy
.”
“Now
you
please
to
be
facetious
,”
was
all
the
other
could
say
.
“Not
at
all
. I
speak
in
all
seriousness
. You
still
believe
in
equality
,
and
yet
you
do
the
work
of
the
corporations
, and
the
corporations
, from
day
to
day
, are
busily
engaged
in
burying
equality
. And
you
call
me
a
socialist
because
I
deny
equality
, because
I
affirm
just
what
you
live
up
to
. The
Republicans
are
foes
to
equality
, though
most
of
them
fight
the
battle
against
equality
with
the
very
word
itself
the
slogan
on
their
lips
. In
the
name
of
equality
they
destroy
equality
. That
was
why
I
called
them
stupid
. As
for
myself
, I
am
an
individualist
. I
believe
the
race
is
to
the
swift
, the
battle
to
the
strong
. Such
is
the
lesson
I
have
learned
from
biology
, or
at
least
think
I
have
learned
. As
I
said
, I
am
an
individualist
, and
individualism
is
the
hereditary
and
eternal
foe
of
socialism
.”
“But
you
frequent
socialist
meetings
,”
Mr
. Morse
challenged
.
“Certainly
, just
as
spies
frequent
hostile
camps
. How
else
are
you
to
learn
about
the
enemy
? Besides
, I
enjoy
myself
at
their
meetings
. They
are
good
fighters
, and
, right
or
wrong
, they
have
read
the
books
. Any
one
of
them
knows
far
more
about
sociology
and
all
the
other
ologies
than
the
average
captain
of
industry
. Yes
, I
have
been
to
half
a
dozen
of
their
meetings
, but
that
doesn’t
make
me
a
socialist
any
more
than
hearing
Charley
Hapgood
orate
made
me
a
Republican
.”
“I
can’t
help
it
,”
Mr
. Morse
said
feebly
, “but
I
still
believe
you
incline
that
way
.”
Bless
me
, Martin
thought
to
himself
, he
doesn’t
know
what
I
was
talking
about
. He
hasn’t
understood
a
word
of
it
. What
did
he
do
with
his
education
, anyway
?
Thus
, in
his
development
, Martin
found
himself
face
to
face
with
economic
morality
, or
the
morality
of
class
; and
soon
it
became
to
him
a
grisly
monster
. Personally
, he
was
an
intellectual
moralist
, and
more
offending
to
him
than
platitudinous
pomposity
was
the
morality
of
those
about
him
, which
was
a
curious
hotchpotch
of
the
economic
, the
metaphysical
, the
sentimental
, and
the
imitative
.
A
sample
of
this
curious
messy
mixture
he
encountered
nearer
home
. His
sister
Marian
had
been
keeping
company
with
an
industrious
young
mechanic
, of
German
extraction
, who
, after
thoroughly
learning
the
trade
, had
set
up
for
himself
in
a
bicycle-repair
shop
. Also
, having
got
the
agency
for
a
low-grade
make
of
wheel
, he
was
prosperous
. Marian
had
called
on
Martin
in
his
room
a
short
time
before
to
announce
her
engagement
, during
which
visit
she
had
playfully
inspected
Martin’s
palm
and
told
his
fortune
. On
her
next
visit
she
brought
Hermann
von
Schmidt
along
with
her
. Martin
did
the
honors
and
congratulated
both
of
them
in
language
so
easy
and
graceful
as
to
affect
disagreeably
the
peasant-mind
of
his
sister’s
lover
. This
bad
impression
was
further
heightened
by
Martin’s
reading
aloud
the
half-dozen
stanzas
of
verse
with
which
he
had
commemorated
Marian’s
previous
visit
. It
was
a
bit
of
society
verse
, airy
and
delicate
, which
he
had
named
“The
Palmist
.”
He
was
surprised
, when
he
finished
reading
it
, to
note
no
enjoyment
in
his
sister’s
face
. Instead
, her
eyes
were
fixed
anxiously
upon
her
betrothed
, and
Martin
, following
her
gaze
, saw
spread
on
that
worthy’s
asymmetrical
features
nothing
but
black
and
sullen
disapproval
. The
incident
passed
over
, they
made
an
early
departure
, and
Martin
forgot
all
about
it
, though
for
the
moment
he
had
been
puzzled
that
any
woman
,
even
of
the
working
class
, should
not
have
been
flattered
and
delighted
by
having
poetry
written
about
her
.
Several
evenings
later
Marian
again
visited
him
, this
time
alone
. Nor
did
she
waste
time
in
coming
to
the
point
, upbraiding
him
sorrowfully
for
what
he
had
done
.
“Why
, Marian
,”
he
chided
, “you
talk
as
though
you
were
ashamed
of
your
relatives
, or
of
your
brother
at
any
rate
.”
“And
I
am
, too
,”
she
blurted
out
.
Martin
was
bewildered
by
the
tears
of
mortification
he
saw
in
her
eyes
.
The
mood
, whatever
it
was
, was
genuine
.
“But
, Marian
, why
should
your
Hermann
be
jealous
of
my
writing
poetry
about
my
own
sister
?”
“He
ain’t
jealous
,”
she
sobbed
. “He
says
it
was
indecent
, ob—obscene
.”
Martin
emitted
a
long
, low
whistle
of
incredulity
, then
proceeded
to
resurrect
and
read
a
carbon
copy
of
“The
Palmist
.”
“I
can’t
see
it
,”
he
said
finally
, proffering
the
manuscript
to
her
.
“Read
it
yourself
and
show
me
whatever
strikes
you
as
obscene—that
was
the
word
, wasn’t
it
?”
“He
says
so
, and
he
ought
to
know
,”
was
the
answer
, with
a
wave
aside
of
the
manuscript
, accompanied
by
a
look
of
loathing
. “And
he
says
you’ve
got
to
tear
it
up
. He
says
he
won’t
have
no
wife
of
his
with
such
things
written
about
her
which
anybody
can
read
. He
says
it’s
a
disgrace
, an’
he
won’t
stand
for
it
.”
“Now
, look
here
, Marian
, this
is
nothing
but
nonsense
,”
Martin
began
;
then
abruptly
changed
his
mind
.
He
saw
before
him
an
unhappy
girl
, knew
the
futility
of
attempting
to
convince
her
husband
or
her
, and
, though
the
whole
situation
was
absurd
and
preposterous
, he
resolved
to
surrender
.
“All
right
,”
he
announced
, tearing
the
manuscript
into
half
a
dozen
pieces
and
throwing
it
into
the
waste-basket
.
He
contented
himself
with
the
knowledge
that
even
then
the
original
type-written
manuscript
was
reposing
in
the
office
of
a
New
York
magazine
. Marian
and
her
husband
would
never
know
, and
neither
himself
nor
they
nor
the
world
would
lose
if
the
pretty
, harmless
poem
ever
were
published
.
Marian
, starting
to
reach
into
the
waste-basket
, refrained
.
“Can
I
?”
she
pleaded
.
He
nodded
his
head
, regarding
her
thoughtfully
as
she
gathered
the
torn
pieces
of
manuscript
and
tucked
them
into
the
pocket
of
her
jacket—ocular
evidence
of
the
success
of
her
mission
. She
reminded
him
of
Lizzie
Connolly
, though
there
was
less
of
fire
and
gorgeous
flaunting
life
in
her
than
in
that
other
girl
of
the
working
class
whom
he
had
seen
twice
. But
they
were
on
a
par
, the
pair
of
them
, in
dress
and
carriage
, and
he
smiled
with
inward
amusement
at
the
caprice
of
his
fancy
which
suggested
the
appearance
of
either
of
them
in
Mrs
. Morse’s
drawing-room
. The
amusement
faded
, and
he
was
aware
of
a
great
loneliness
. This
sister
of
his
and
the
Morse
drawing-room
were
milestones
of
the
road
he
had
travelled
. And
he
had
left
them
behind
.
He
glanced
affectionately
about
him
at
his
few
books
. They
were
all
the
comrades
left
to
him
.
“Hello
, what’s
that
?”
he
demanded
in
startled
surprise
.
Marian
repeated
her
question
.
“Why
don’t
I
go
to
work
?”
He
broke
into
a
laugh
that
was
only
half-hearted
. “That
Hermann
of
yours
has
been
talking
to
you
.”
She
shook
her
head
.
“Don’t
lie
,”
he
commanded
, and
the
nod
of
her
head
affirmed
his
charge
.
“Well
, you
tell
that
Hermann
of
yours
to
mind
his
own
business
; that
when
I
write
poetry
about
the
girl
he’s
keeping
company
with
it’s
his
business
, but
that
outside
of
that
he’s
got
no
say
so
. Understand
?
“So
you
don’t
think
I’ll
succeed
as
a
writer
, eh
?”
he
went
on
. “You
think
I’m
no
good
?—that
I’ve
fallen
down
and
am
a
disgrace
to
the
family
?”
“I
think
it
would
be
much
better
if
you
got
a
job
,”
she
said
firmly
,
and
he
saw
she
was
sincere
. “Hermann
says—”
“Damn
Hermann
!”
he
broke
out
good-naturedly
. “What
I
want
to
know
is
when
you’re
going
to
get
married
. Also
, you
find
out
from
your
Hermann
if
he
will
deign
to
permit
you
to
accept
a
wedding
present
from
me
.”
He
mused
over
the
incident
after
she
had
gone
, and
once
or
twice
broke
out
into
laughter
that
was
bitter
as
he
saw
his
sister
and
her
betrothed
, all
the
members
of
his
own
class
and
the
members
of
Ruth’s
class
, directing
their
narrow
little
lives
by
narrow
little
formulas—herd-creatures
, flocking
together
and
patterning
their
lives
by
one
another’s
opinions
, failing
of
being
individuals
and
of
really
living
life
because
of
the
childlike
formulas
by
which
they
were
enslaved
. He
summoned
them
before
him
in
apparitional
procession
:
Bernard
Higginbotham
arm
in
arm
with
Mr
. Butler
, Hermann
von
Schmidt
cheek
by
jowl
with
Charley
Hapgood
, and
one
by
one
and
in
pairs
he
judged
them
and
dismissed
them—judged
them
by
the
standards
of
intellect
and
morality
he
had
learned
from
the
books
. Vainly
he
asked
:
Where
are
the
great
souls
, the
great
men
and
women
? He
found
them
not
among
the
careless
, gross
, and
stupid
intelligences
that
answered
the
call
of
vision
to
his
narrow
room
. He
felt
a
loathing
for
them
such
as
Circe
must
have
felt
for
her
swine
. When
he
had
dismissed
the
last
one
and
thought
himself
alone
, a
late-comer
entered
, unexpected
and
unsummoned
. Martin
watched
him
and
saw
the
stiff-rim
, the
square-cut
,
double-breasted
coat
and
the
swaggering
shoulders
, of
the
youthful
hoodlum
who
had
once
been
he
.
“You
were
like
all
the
rest
, young
fellow
,”
Martin
sneered
. “Your
morality
and
your
knowledge
were
just
the
same
as
theirs
. You
did
not
think
and
act
for
yourself
. Your
opinions
, like
your
clothes
, were
ready
made
; your
acts
were
shaped
by
popular
approval
. You
were
cock
of
your
gang
because
others
acclaimed
you
the
real
thing
. You
fought
and
ruled
the
gang
, not
because
you
liked
to
,—you
know
you
really
despised
it
,—but
because
the
other
fellows
patted
you
on
the
shoulder
. You
licked
Cheese-Face
because
you
wouldn’t
give
in
, and
you
wouldn’t
give
in
partly
because
you
were
an
abysmal
brute
and
for
the
rest
because
you
believed
what
every
one
about
you
believed
, that
the
measure
of
manhood
was
the
carnivorous
ferocity
displayed
in
injuring
and
marring
fellow-creatures’
anatomies
. Why
, you
whelp
, you
even
won
other
fellows’
girls
away
from
them
, not
because
you
wanted
the
girls
, but
because
in
the
marrow
of
those
about
you
, those
who
set
your
moral
pace
, was
the
instinct
of
the
wild
stallion
and
the
bull-seal
. Well
,
the
years
have
passed
, and
what
do
you
think
about
it
now
?”
As
if
in
reply
, the
vision
underwent
a
swift
metamorphosis
. The
stiff-rim
and
the
square-cut
vanished
, being
replaced
by
milder
garments
; the
toughness
went
out
of
the
face
, the
hardness
out
of
the
eyes
; and
, the
face
, chastened
and
refined
, was
irradiated
from
an
inner
life
of
communion
with
beauty
and
knowledge
. The
apparition
was
very
like
his
present
self
, and
, as
he
regarded
it
, he
noted
the
student-lamp
by
which
it
was
illuminated
, and
the
book
over
which
it
pored
. He
glanced
at
the
title
and
read
, “The
Science
of
Æsthetics
.”
Next
, he
entered
into
the
apparition
, trimmed
the
student-lamp
, and
himself
went
on
reading
“The
Science
of
Æsthetics
.”
CHAPTER
XXX
.
On
a
beautiful
fall
day
, a
day
of
similar
Indian
summer
to
that
which
had
seen
their
love
declared
the
year
before
, Martin
read
his
“Love-cycle”
to
Ruth
. It
was
in
the
afternoon
, and
, as
before
, they
had
ridden
out
to
their
favorite
knoll
in
the
hills
. Now
and
again
she
had
interrupted
his
reading
with
exclamations
of
pleasure
, and
now
, as
he
laid
the
last
sheet
of
manuscript
with
its
fellows
, he
waited
her
judgment
.
She
delayed
to
speak
, and
at
last
she
spoke
haltingly
, hesitating
to
frame
in
words
the
harshness
of
her
thought
.
“I
think
they
are
beautiful
, very
beautiful
,”
she
said
; “but
you
can’t
sell
them
, can
you
? You
see
what
I
mean
,”
she
said
, almost
pleaded
.
“This
writing
of
yours
is
not
practical
. Something
is
the
matter—maybe
it
is
with
the
market—that
prevents
you
from
earning
a
living
by
it
.
And
please
, dear
, don’t
misunderstand
me
. I
am
flattered
, and
made
proud
, and
all
that—I
could
not
be
a
true
woman
were
it
otherwise—that
you
should
write
these
poems
to
me
. But
they
do
not
make
our
marriage
possible
. Don’t
you
see
, Martin
? Don’t
think
me
mercenary
. It
is
love
,
the
thought
of
our
future
, with
which
I
am
burdened
. A
whole
year
has
gone
by
since
we
learned
we
loved
each
other
, and
our
wedding
day
is
no
nearer
. Don’t
think
me
immodest
in
thus
talking
about
our
wedding
, for
really
I
have
my
heart
, all
that
I
am
, at
stake
. Why
don’t
you
try
to
get
work
on
a
newspaper
, if
you
are
so
bound
up
in
your
writing
? Why
not
become
a
reporter
?—for
a
while
, at
least
?”
“It
would
spoil
my
style
,”
was
his
answer
, in
a
low
, monotonous
voice
.
“You
have
no
idea
how
I’ve
worked
for
style
.”
“But
those
storiettes
,”
she
argued
. “You
called
them
hack-work
. You
wrote
many
of
them
. Didn’t
they
spoil
your
style
?”
“No
, the
cases
are
different
. The
storiettes
were
ground
out
, jaded
, at
the
end
of
a
long
day
of
application
to
style
. But
a
reporter’s
work
is
all
hack
from
morning
till
night
, is
the
one
paramount
thing
of
life
.
And
it
is
a
whirlwind
life
, the
life
of
the
moment
, with
neither
past
nor
future
, and
certainly
without
thought
of
any
style
but
reportorial
style
, and
that
certainly
is
not
literature
. To
become
a
reporter
now
,
just
as
my
style
is
taking
form
, crystallizing
, would
be
to
commit
literary
suicide
. As
it
is
, every
storiette
, every
word
of
every
storiette
, was
a
violation
of
myself
, of
my
self-respect
, of
my
respect
for
beauty
. I
tell
you
it
was
sickening
. I
was
guilty
of
sin
. And
I
was
secretly
glad
when
the
markets
failed
, even
if
my
clothes
did
go
into
pawn
. But
the
joy
of
writing
the
‘Love-cycle’
! The
creative
joy
in
its
noblest
form
! That
was
compensation
for
everything
.”
Martin
did
not
know
that
Ruth
was
unsympathetic
concerning
the
creative
joy
. She
used
the
phrase—it
was
on
her
lips
he
had
first
heard
it
. She
had
read
about
it
, studied
about
it
, in
the
university
in
the
course
of
earning
her
Bachelorship
of
Arts
; but
she
was
not
original
, not
creative
, and
all
manifestations
of
culture
on
her
part
were
but
harpings
of
the
harpings
of
others
.
“May
not
the
editor
have
been
right
in
his
revision
of
your
‘Sea
Lyrics’
?”
she
questioned
. “Remember
, an
editor
must
have
proved
qualifications
or
else
he
would
not
be
an
editor
.”
“That’s
in
line
with
the
persistence
of
the
established
,”
he
rejoined
,
his
heat
against
the
editor-folk
getting
the
better
of
him
. “What
is
,
is
not
only
right
, but
is
the
best
possible
. The
existence
of
anything
is
sufficient
vindication
of
its
fitness
to
exist—to
exist
, mark
you
,
as
the
average
person
unconsciously
believes
, not
merely
in
present
conditions
, but
in
all
conditions
. It
is
their
ignorance
, of
course
,
that
makes
them
believe
such
rot—their
ignorance
, which
is
nothing
more
nor
less
than
the
henidical
mental
process
described
by
Weininger
. They
think
they
think
, and
such
thinkless
creatures
are
the
arbiters
of
the
lives
of
the
few
who
really
think
.”
He
paused
, overcome
by
the
consciousness
that
he
had
been
talking
over
Ruth’s
head
.
“I’m
sure
I
don’t
know
who
this
Weininger
is
,”
she
retorted
. “And
you
are
so
dreadfully
general
that
I
fail
to
follow
you
. What
I
was
speaking
of
was
the
qualification
of
editors—”
“And
I’ll
tell
you
,”
he
interrupted
. “The
chief
qualification
of
ninety-nine
per
cent
of
all
editors
is
failure
. They
have
failed
as
writers
. Don’t
think
they
prefer
the
drudgery
of
the
desk
and
the
slavery
to
their
circulation
and
to
the
business
manager
to
the
joy
of
writing
. They
have
tried
to
write
, and
they
have
failed
. And
right
there
is
the
cursed
paradox
of
it
. Every
portal
to
success
in
literature
is
guarded
by
those
watch-dogs
, the
failures
in
literature
.
The
editors
, sub-editors
, associate
editors
, most
of
them
, and
the
manuscript-readers
for
the
magazines
and
book-publishers
, most
of
them
,
nearly
all
of
them
, are
men
who
wanted
to
write
and
who
have
failed
.
And
yet
they
, of
all
creatures
under
the
sun
the
most
unfit
, are
the
very
creatures
who
decide
what
shall
and
what
shall
not
find
its
way
into
print—they
, who
have
proved
themselves
not
original
, who
have
demonstrated
that
they
lack
the
divine
fire
, sit
in
judgment
upon
originality
and
genius
. And
after
them
come
the
reviewers
, just
so
many
more
failures
. Don’t
tell
me
that
they
have
not
dreamed
the
dream
and
attempted
to
write
poetry
or
fiction
; for
they
have
, and
they
have
failed
. Why
, the
average
review
is
more
nauseating
than
cod-liver
oil
.
But
you
know
my
opinion
on
the
reviewers
and
the
alleged
critics
. There
are
great
critics
, but
they
are
as
rare
as
comets
. If
I
fail
as
a
writer
, I
shall
have
proved
for
the
career
of
editorship
. There’s
bread
and
butter
and
jam
, at
any
rate
.”
Ruth’s
mind
was
quick
, and
her
disapproval
of
her
lover’s
views
was
buttressed
by
the
contradiction
she
found
in
his
contention
.
“But
, Martin
, if
that
be
so
, if
all
the
doors
are
closed
as
you
have
shown
so
conclusively
, how
is
it
possible
that
any
of
the
great
writers
ever
arrived
?”
“They
arrived
by
achieving
the
impossible
,”
he
answered
. “They
did
such
blazing
, glorious
work
as
to
burn
to
ashes
those
that
opposed
them
.
They
arrived
by
course
of
miracle
, by
winning
a
thousand-to-one
wager
against
them
. They
arrived
because
they
were
Carlyle’s
battle-scarred
giants
who
will
not
be
kept
down
. And
that
is
what
I
must
do
; I
must
achieve
the
impossible
.”
“But
if
you
fail
? You
must
consider
me
as
well
, Martin
.”
“If
I
fail
?”
He
regarded
her
for
a
moment
as
though
the
thought
she
had
uttered
was
unthinkable
. Then
intelligence
illumined
his
eyes
. “If
I
fail
, I
shall
become
an
editor
, and
you
will
be
an
editor’s
wife
.”
She
frowned
at
his
facetiousness—a
pretty
, adorable
frown
that
made
him
put
his
arm
around
her
and
kiss
it
away
.
“There
, that’s
enough
,”
she
urged
, by
an
effort
of
will
withdrawing
herself
from
the
fascination
of
his
strength
. “I
have
talked
with
father
and
mother
. I
never
before
asserted
myself
so
against
them
. I
demanded
to
be
heard
. I
was
very
undutiful
. They
are
against
you
, you
know
; but
I
assured
them
over
and
over
of
my
abiding
love
for
you
, and
at
last
father
agreed
that
if
you
wanted
to
, you
could
begin
right
away
in
his
office
. And
then
, of
his
own
accord
, he
said
he
would
pay
you
enough
at
the
start
so
that
we
could
get
married
and
have
a
little
cottage
somewhere
. Which
I
think
was
very
fine
of
him—don’t
you
?”
Martin
, with
the
dull
pain
of
despair
at
his
heart
, mechanically
reaching
for
the
tobacco
and
paper
(which
he
no
longer
carried)
to
roll
a
cigarette
, muttered
something
inarticulate
, and
Ruth
went
on
.
“Frankly
, though
, and
don’t
let
it
hurt
you—I
tell
you
, to
show
you
precisely
how
you
stand
with
him—he
doesn’t
like
your
radical
views
,
and
he
thinks
you
are
lazy
. Of
course
I
know
you
are
not
. I
know
you
work
hard
.”
How
hard
, even
she
did
not
know
, was
the
thought
in
Martin’s
mind
.
“Well
, then
,”
he
said
, “how
about
my
views
? Do
you
think
they
are
so
radical
?”
He
held
her
eyes
and
waited
the
answer
.
“I
think
them
, well
, very
disconcerting
,”
she
replied
.
The
question
was
answered
for
him
, and
so
oppressed
was
he
by
the
grayness
of
life
that
he
forgot
the
tentative
proposition
she
had
made
for
him
to
go
to
work
. And
she
, having
gone
as
far
as
she
dared
, was
willing
to
wait
the
answer
till
she
should
bring
the
question
up
again
.
She
had
not
long
to
wait
. Martin
had
a
question
of
his
own
to
propound
to
her
. He
wanted
to
ascertain
the
measure
of
her
faith
in
him
, and
within
the
week
each
was
answered
. Martin
precipitated
it
by
reading
to
her
his
“The
Shame
of
the
Sun
.”
“Why
don’t
you
become
a
reporter
?”
she
asked
when
he
had
finished
. “You
love
writing
so
, and
I
am
sure
you
would
succeed
. You
could
rise
in
journalism
and
make
a
name
for
yourself
. There
are
a
number
of
great
special
correspondents
. Their
salaries
are
large
, and
their
field
is
the
world
. They
are
sent
everywhere
, to
the
heart
of
Africa
, like
Stanley
, or
to
interview
the
Pope
, or
to
explore
unknown
Thibet
.”
“Then
you
don’t
like
my
essay
?”
he
rejoined
. “You
believe
that
I
have
some
show
in
journalism
but
none
in
literature
?”
“No
, no
; I
do
like
it
. It
reads
well
. But
I
am
afraid
it’s
over
the
heads
of
your
readers
. At
least
it
is
over
mine
. It
sounds
beautiful
,
but
I
don’t
understand
it
. Your
scientific
slang
is
beyond
me
. You
are
an
extremist
, you
know
, dear
, and
what
may
be
intelligible
to
you
may
not
be
intelligible
to
the
rest
of
us
.”
“I
imagine
it’s
the
philosophic
slang
that
bothers
you
,”
was
all
he
could
say
.
He
was
flaming
from
the
fresh
reading
of
the
ripest
thought
he
had
expressed
, and
her
verdict
stunned
him
.
“No
matter
how
poorly
it
is
done
,”
he
persisted
, “don’t
you
see
anything
in
it
?—in
the
thought
of
it
, I
mean
?”
She
shook
her
head
.
“No
, it
is
so
different
from
anything
I
have
read
. I
read
Maeterlinck
and
understand
him—”
“His
mysticism
, you
understand
that
?”
Martin
flashed
out
.
“Yes
, but
this
of
yours
, which
is
supposed
to
be
an
attack
upon
him
, I
don’t
understand
. Of
course
, if
originality
counts—”
He
stopped
her
with
an
impatient
gesture
that
was
not
followed
by
speech
. He
became
suddenly
aware
that
she
was
speaking
and
that
she
had
been
speaking
for
some
time
.
“After
all
, your
writing
has
been
a
toy
to
you
,”
she
was
saying
.
“Surely
you
have
played
with
it
long
enough
. It
is
time
to
take
up
life
seriously—_our_
life
, Martin
. Hitherto
you
have
lived
solely
your
own
.”
“You
want
me
to
go
to
work
?”
he
asked
.
“Yes
. Father
has
offered—”
“I
understand
all
that
,”
he
broke
in
; “but
what
I
want
to
know
is
whether
or
not
you
have
lost
faith
in
me
?”
She
pressed
his
hand
mutely
, her
eyes
dim
.
“In
your
writing
, dear
,”
she
admitted
in
a
half-whisper
.
“You’ve
read
lots
of
my
stuff
,”
he
went
on
brutally
. “What
do
you
think
of
it
? Is
it
utterly
hopeless
? How
does
it
compare
with
other
men’s
work
?”
“But
they
sell
theirs
, and
you—don’t
.”
“That
doesn’t
answer
my
question
. Do
you
think
that
literature
is
not
at
all
my
vocation
?”
“Then
I
will
answer
.”
She
steeled
herself
to
do
it
. “I
don’t
think
you
were
made
to
write
. Forgive
me
, dear
. You
compel
me
to
say
it
; and
you
know
I
know
more
about
literature
than
you
do
.”
“Yes
, you
are
a
Bachelor
of
Arts
,”
he
said
meditatively
; “and
you
ought
to
know
.”
“But
there
is
more
to
be
said
,”
he
continued
, after
a
pause
painful
to
both
. “I
know
what
I
have
in
me
. No
one
knows
that
so
well
as
I
. I
know
I
shall
succeed
. I
will
not
be
kept
down
. I
am
afire
with
what
I
have
to
say
in
verse
, and
fiction
, and
essay
. I
do
not
ask
you
to
have
faith
in
that
, though
. I
do
not
ask
you
to
have
faith
in
me
, nor
in
my
writing
. What
I
do
ask
of
you
is
to
love
me
and
have
faith
in
love
.
“A
year
ago
I
begged
for
two
years
. One
of
those
years
is
yet
to
run
.
And
I
do
believe
, upon
my
honor
and
my
soul
, that
before
that
year
is
run
I
shall
have
succeeded
. You
remember
what
you
told
me
long
ago
,
that
I
must
serve
my
apprenticeship
to
writing
. Well
, I
have
served
it
.
I
have
crammed
it
and
telescoped
it
. With
you
at
the
end
awaiting
me
, I
have
never
shirked
. Do
you
know
, I
have
forgotten
what
it
is
to
fall
peacefully
asleep
. A
few
million
years
ago
I
knew
what
it
was
to
sleep
my
fill
and
to
awake
naturally
from
very
glut
of
sleep
. I
am
awakened
always
now
by
an
alarm
clock
. If
I
fall
asleep
early
or
late
, I
set
the
alarm
accordingly
; and
this
, and
the
putting
out
of
the
lamp
, are
my
last
conscious
actions
.
“When
I
begin
to
feel
drowsy
, I
change
the
heavy
book
I
am
reading
for
a
lighter
one
. And
when
I
doze
over
that
, I
beat
my
head
with
my
knuckles
in
order
to
drive
sleep
away
. Somewhere
I
read
of
a
man
who
was
afraid
to
sleep
. Kipling
wrote
the
story
. This
man
arranged
a
spur
so
that
when
unconsciousness
came
, his
naked
body
pressed
against
the
iron
teeth
. Well
, I’ve
done
the
same
. I
look
at
the
time
, and
I
resolve
that
not
until
midnight
, or
not
until
one
o’clock
, or
two
o’clock
, or
three
o’clock
, shall
the
spur
be
removed
. And
so
it
rowels
me
awake
until
the
appointed
time
. That
spur
has
been
my
bed-mate
for
months
. I
have
grown
so
desperate
that
five
and
a
half
hours
of
sleep
is
an
extravagance
. I
sleep
four
hours
now
. I
am
starved
for
sleep
. There
are
times
when
I
am
light-headed
from
want
of
sleep
, times
when
death
, with
its
rest
and
sleep
, is
a
positive
lure
to
me
, times
when
I
am
haunted
by
Longfellow’s
lines
:
“‘The
sea
is
still
and
deep
;
All
things
within
its
bosom
sleep
;
A
single
step
and
all
is
o’er
,
A
plunge
, a
bubble
, and
no
more
.’
“Of
course
, this
is
sheer
nonsense
. It
comes
from
nervousness
, from
an
overwrought
mind
. But
the
point
is
: Why
have
I
done
this
? For
you
. To
shorten
my
apprenticeship
. To
compel
Success
to
hasten
. And
my
apprenticeship
is
now
served
. I
know
my
equipment
. I
swear
that
I
learn
more
each
month
than
the
average
college
man
learns
in
a
year
. I
know
it
, I
tell
you
. But
were
my
need
for
you
to
understand
not
so
desperate
I
should
not
tell
you
. It
is
not
boasting
. I
measure
the
results
by
the
books
. Your
brothers
, to-day
, are
ignorant
barbarians
compared
with
me
and
the
knowledge
I
have
wrung
from
the
books
in
the
hours
they
were
sleeping
. Long
ago
I
wanted
to
be
famous
. I
care
very
little
for
fame
now
. What
I
want
is
you
; I
am
more
hungry
for
you
than
for
food
, or
clothing
, or
recognition
. I
have
a
dream
of
laying
my
head
on
your
breast
and
sleeping
an
aeon
or
so
, and
the
dream
will
come
true
ere
another
year
is
gone
.”
His
power
beat
against
her
, wave
upon
wave
; and
in
the
moment
his
will
opposed
hers
most
she
felt
herself
most
strongly
drawn
toward
him
. The
strength
that
had
always
poured
out
from
him
to
her
was
now
flowering
in
his
impassioned
voice
, his
flashing
eyes
, and
the
vigor
of
life
and
intellect
surging
in
him
. And
in
that
moment
, and
for
the
moment
, she
was
aware
of
a
rift
that
showed
in
her
certitude—a
rift
through
which
she
caught
sight
of
the
real
Martin
Eden
, splendid
and
invincible
; and
as
animal-trainers
have
their
moments
of
doubt
, so
she
, for
the
instant
, seemed
to
doubt
her
power
to
tame
this
wild
spirit
of
a
man
.
“And
another
thing
,”
he
swept
on
. “You
love
me
. But
why
do
you
love
me
?
The
thing
in
me
that
compels
me
to
write
is
the
very
thing
that
draws
your
love
. You
love
me
because
I
am
somehow
different
from
the
men
you
have
known
and
might
have
loved
. I
was
not
made
for
the
desk
and
counting-house
, for
petty
business
squabbling
, and
legal
jangling
. Make
me
do
such
things
, make
me
like
those
other
men
, doing
the
work
they
do
, breathing
the
air
they
breathe
, developing
the
point
of
view
they
have
developed
, and
you
have
destroyed
the
difference
, destroyed
me
,
destroyed
the
thing
you
love
. My
desire
to
write
is
the
most
vital
thing
in
me
. Had
I
been
a
mere
clod
, neither
would
I
have
desired
to
write
, nor
would
you
have
desired
me
for
a
husband
.”
“But
you
forget
,”
she
interrupted
, the
quick
surface
of
her
mind
glimpsing
a
parallel
. “There
have
been
eccentric
inventors
, starving
their
families
while
they
sought
such
chimeras
as
perpetual
motion
.
Doubtless
their
wives
loved
them
, and
suffered
with
them
and
for
them
,
not
because
of
but
in
spite
of
their
infatuation
for
perpetual
motion
.”
“True
,”
was
the
reply
. “But
there
have
been
inventors
who
were
not
eccentric
and
who
starved
while
they
sought
to
invent
practical
things
;
and
sometimes
, it
is
recorded
, they
succeeded
. Certainly
I
do
not
seek
any
impossibilities—”
“You
have
called
it
‘achieving
the
impossible
,’”
she
interpolated
.
“I
spoke
figuratively
. I
seek
to
do
what
men
have
done
before
me—to
write
and
to
live
by
my
writing
.”
Her
silence
spurred
him
on
.
“To
you
, then
, my
goal
is
as
much
a
chimera
as
perpetual
motion
?”
he
demanded
.
He
read
her
answer
in
the
pressure
of
her
hand
on
his—the
pitying
mother-hand
for
the
hurt
child
. And
to
her
, just
then
, he
was
the
hurt
child
, the
infatuated
man
striving
to
achieve
the
impossible
.
Toward
the
close
of
their
talk
she
warned
him
again
of
the
antagonism
of
her
father
and
mother
.
“But
you
love
me
?”
he
asked
.
“I
do
! I
do
!”
she
cried
.
“And
I
love
you
, not
them
, and
nothing
they
do
can
hurt
me
.”
Triumph
sounded
in
his
voice
. “For
I
have
faith
in
your
love
, not
fear
of
their
enmity
. All
things
may
go
astray
in
this
world
, but
not
love
. Love
cannot
go
wrong
unless
it
be
a
weakling
that
faints
and
stumbles
by
the
way
.”
CHAPTER
XXXI
.
Martin
had
encountered
his
sister
Gertrude
by
chance
on
Broadway—as
it
proved
, a
most
propitious
yet
disconcerting
chance
. Waiting
on
the
corner
for
a
car
, she
had
seen
him
first
, and
noted
the
eager
, hungry
lines
of
his
face
and
the
desperate
, worried
look
of
his
eyes
. In
truth
, he
was
desperate
and
worried
. He
had
just
come
from
a
fruitless
interview
with
the
pawnbroker
, from
whom
he
had
tried
to
wring
an
additional
loan
on
his
wheel
. The
muddy
fall
weather
having
come
on
,
Martin
had
pledged
his
wheel
some
time
since
and
retained
his
black
suit
.
“There’s
the
black
suit
,”
the
pawnbroker
, who
knew
his
every
asset
, had
answered
. “You
needn’t
tell
me
you’ve
gone
and
pledged
it
with
that
Jew
, Lipka
. Because
if
you
have—”
The
man
had
looked
the
threat
, and
Martin
hastened
to
cry
:-
“No
, no
; I’ve
got
it
. But
I
want
to
wear
it
on
a
matter
of
business
.”
“All
right
,”
the
mollified
usurer
had
replied
. “And
I
want
it
on
a
matter
of
business
before
I
can
let
you
have
any
more
money
. You
don’t
think
I’m
in
it
for
my
health
?”
“But
it’s
a
forty-dollar
wheel
, in
good
condition
,”
Martin
had
argued
.
“And
you’ve
only
let
me
have
seven
dollars
on
it
. No
, not
even
seven
.
Six
and
a
quarter
; you
took
the
interest
in
advance
.”
“If
you
want
some
more
, bring
the
suit
,”
had
been
the
reply
that
sent
Martin
out
of
the
stuffy
little
den
, so
desperate
at
heart
as
to
reflect
it
in
his
face
and
touch
his
sister
to
pity
.
Scarcely
had
they
met
when
the
Telegraph
Avenue
car
came
along
and
stopped
to
take
on
a
crowd
of
afternoon
shoppers
. Mrs
. Higginbotham
divined
from
the
grip
on
her
arm
as
he
helped
her
on
, that
he
was
not
going
to
follow
her
. She
turned
on
the
step
and
looked
down
upon
him
.
His
haggard
face
smote
her
to
the
heart
again
.
“Ain’t
you
comin’
?”
she
asked
The
next
moment
she
had
descended
to
his
side
.
“I’m
walking—exercise
, you
know
,”
he
explained
.
“Then
I’ll
go
along
for
a
few
blocks
,”
she
announced
. “Mebbe
it’ll
do
me
good
. I
ain’t
ben
feelin’
any
too
spry
these
last
few
days
.”
Martin
glanced
at
her
and
verified
her
statement
in
her
general
slovenly
appearance
, in
the
unhealthy
fat
, in
the
drooping
shoulders
,
the
tired
face
with
the
sagging
lines
, and
in
the
heavy
fall
of
her
feet
, without
elasticity—a
very
caricature
of
the
walk
that
belongs
to
a
free
and
happy
body
.
“You’d
better
stop
here
,”
he
said
, though
she
had
already
come
to
a
halt
at
the
first
corner
, “and
take
the
next
car
.”
“My
goodness
!—if
I
ain’t
all
tired
a’ready
!”
she
panted
. “But
I’m
just
as
able
to
walk
as
you
in
them
soles
. They’re
that
thin
they’ll
bu’st
long
before
you
git
out
to
North
Oakland
.”
“I’ve
a
better
pair
at
home
,”
was
the
answer
.
“Come
out
to
dinner
to-morrow
,”
she
invited
irrelevantly
. “Mr
.
Higginbotham
won’t
be
there
. He’s
goin’
to
San
Leandro
on
business
.”
Martin
shook
his
head
, but
he
had
failed
to
keep
back
the
wolfish
,
hungry
look
that
leapt
into
his
eyes
at
the
suggestion
of
dinner
.
“You
haven’t
a
penny
, Mart
, and
that’s
why
you’re
walkin’
. Exercise
!”
She
tried
to
sniff
contemptuously
, but
succeeded
in
producing
only
a
sniffle
. “Here
, lemme
see
.”
And
, fumbling
in
her
satchel
, she
pressed
a
five-dollar
piece
into
his
hand
. “I
guess
I
forgot
your
last
birthday
, Mart
,”
she
mumbled
lamely
.
Martin’s
hand
instinctively
closed
on
the
piece
of
gold
. In
the
same
instant
he
knew
he
ought
not
to
accept
, and
found
himself
struggling
in
the
throes
of
indecision
. That
bit
of
gold
meant
food
, life
, and
light
in
his
body
and
brain
, power
to
go
on
writing
, and—who
was
to
say
?—maybe
to
write
something
that
would
bring
in
many
pieces
of
gold
.
Clear
on
his
vision
burned
the
manuscripts
of
two
essays
he
had
just
completed
. He
saw
them
under
the
table
on
top
of
the
heap
of
returned
manuscripts
for
which
he
had
no
stamps
, and
he
saw
their
titles
, just
as
he
had
typed
them—“The
High
Priests
of
Mystery
,”
and
“The
Cradle
of
Beauty
.”
He
had
never
submitted
them
anywhere
. They
were
as
good
as
anything
he
had
done
in
that
line
. If
only
he
had
stamps
for
them
! Then
the
certitude
of
his
ultimate
success
rose
up
in
him
, an
able
ally
of
hunger
, and
with
a
quick
movement
he
slipped
the
coin
into
his
pocket
.
“I’ll
pay
you
back
, Gertrude
, a
hundred
times
over
,”
he
gulped
out
, his
throat
painfully
contracted
and
in
his
eyes
a
swift
hint
of
moisture
.
“Mark
my
words
!”
he
cried
with
abrupt
positiveness
. “Before
the
year
is
out
I’ll
put
an
even
hundred
of
those
little
yellow-boys
into
your
hand
. I
don’t
ask
you
to
believe
me
. All
you
have
to
do
is
wait
and
see
.”
Nor
did
she
believe
. Her
incredulity
made
her
uncomfortable
, and
failing
of
other
expedient
, she
said
:-
“I
know
you’re
hungry
, Mart
. It’s
sticking
out
all
over
you
. Come
in
to
meals
any
time
. I’ll
send
one
of
the
children
to
tell
you
when
Mr
.
Higginbotham
ain’t
to
be
there
. An’
Mart—”
He
waited
, though
he
knew
in
his
secret
heart
what
she
was
about
to
say
, so
visible
was
her
thought
process
to
him
.
“Don’t
you
think
it’s
about
time
you
got
a
job
?”
“You
don’t
think
I’ll
win
out
?”
he
asked
.
She
shook
her
head
.
“Nobody
has
faith
in
me
, Gertrude
, except
myself
.”
His
voice
was
passionately
rebellious
. “I’ve
done
good
work
already
, plenty
of
it
,
and
sooner
or
later
it
will
sell
.”
“How
do
you
know
it
is
good
?”
“Because—”
He
faltered
as
the
whole
vast
field
of
literature
and
the
history
of
literature
stirred
in
his
brain
and
pointed
the
futility
of
his
attempting
to
convey
to
her
the
reasons
for
his
faith
. “Well
,
because
it’s
better
than
ninety-nine
per
cent
of
what
is
published
in
the
magazines
.”
“I
wish’t
you’d
listen
to
reason
,”
she
answered
feebly
, but
with
unwavering
belief
in
the
correctness
of
her
diagnosis
of
what
was
ailing
him
. “I
wish’t
you’d
listen
to
reason
,”
she
repeated
, “an’
come
to
dinner
to-morrow
.”
After
Martin
had
helped
her
on
the
car
, he
hurried
to
the
post-office
and
invested
three
of
the
five
dollars
in
stamps
; and
when
, later
in
the
day
, on
the
way
to
the
Morse
home
, he
stopped
in
at
the
post-office
to
weigh
a
large
number
of
long
, bulky
envelopes
, he
affixed
to
them
all
the
stamps
save
three
of
the
two-cent
denomination
.
It
proved
a
momentous
night
for
Martin
, for
after
dinner
he
met
Russ
Brissenden
. How
he
chanced
to
come
there
, whose
friend
he
was
or
what
acquaintance
brought
him
, Martin
did
not
know
. Nor
had
he
the
curiosity
to
inquire
about
him
of
Ruth
. In
short
, Brissenden
struck
Martin
as
anaemic
and
feather-brained
, and
was
promptly
dismissed
from
his
mind
.
An
hour
later
he
decided
that
Brissenden
was
a
boor
as
well
, what
of
the
way
he
prowled
about
from
one
room
to
another
, staring
at
the
pictures
or
poking
his
nose
into
books
and
magazines
he
picked
up
from
the
table
or
drew
from
the
shelves
. Though
a
stranger
in
the
house
he
finally
isolated
himself
in
the
midst
of
the
company
, huddling
into
a
capacious
Morris
chair
and
reading
steadily
from
a
thin
volume
he
had
drawn
from
his
pocket
. As
he
read
, he
abstractedly
ran
his
fingers
,
with
a
caressing
movement
, through
his
hair
. Martin
noticed
him
no
more
that
evening
, except
once
when
he
observed
him
chaffing
with
great
apparent
success
with
several
of
the
young
women
.
It
chanced
that
when
Martin
was
leaving
, he
overtook
Brissenden
already
half
down
the
walk
to
the
street
.
“Hello
, is
that
you
?”
Martin
said
.
The
other
replied
with
an
ungracious
grunt
, but
swung
alongside
. Martin
made
no
further
attempt
at
conversation
, and
for
several
blocks
unbroken
silence
lay
upon
them
.
“Pompous
old
ass
!”
The
suddenness
and
the
virulence
of
the
exclamation
startled
Martin
. He
felt
amused
, and
at
the
same
time
was
aware
of
a
growing
dislike
for
the
other
.
“What
do
you
go
to
such
a
place
for
?”
was
abruptly
flung
at
him
after
another
block
of
silence
.
“Why
do
you
?”
Martin
countered
.
“Bless
me
, I
don’t
know
,”
came
back
. “At
least
this
is
my
first
indiscretion
. There
are
twenty-four
hours
in
each
day
, and
I
must
spend
them
somehow
. Come
and
have
a
drink
.”
“All
right
,”
Martin
answered
.
The
next
moment
he
was
nonplussed
by
the
readiness
of
his
acceptance
.
At
home
was
several
hours’
hack-work
waiting
for
him
before
he
went
to
bed
, and
after
he
went
to
bed
there
was
a
volume
of
Weismann
waiting
for
him
, to
say
nothing
of
Herbert
Spencer’s
Autobiography
, which
was
as
replete
for
him
with
romance
as
any
thrilling
novel
. Why
should
he
waste
any
time
with
this
man
he
did
not
like
? was
his
thought
. And
yet
,
it
was
not
so
much
the
man
nor
the
drink
as
was
it
what
was
associated
with
the
drink—the
bright
lights
, the
mirrors
and
dazzling
array
of
glasses
, the
warm
and
glowing
faces
and
the
resonant
hum
of
the
voices
of
men
. That
was
it
, it
was
the
voices
of
men
, optimistic
men
, men
who
breathed
success
and
spent
their
money
for
drinks
like
men
. He
was
lonely
, that
was
what
was
the
matter
with
him
; that
was
why
he
had
snapped
at
the
invitation
as
a
bonita
strikes
at
a
white
rag
on
a
hook
.
Not
since
with
Joe
, at
Shelly
Hot
Springs
, with
the
one
exception
of
the
wine
he
took
with
the
Portuguese
grocer
, had
Martin
had
a
drink
at
a
public
bar
. Mental
exhaustion
did
not
produce
a
craving
for
liquor
such
as
physical
exhaustion
did
, and
he
had
felt
no
need
for
it
. But
just
now
he
felt
desire
for
the
drink
, or
, rather
, for
the
atmosphere
wherein
drinks
were
dispensed
and
disposed
of
. Such
a
place
was
the
Grotto
, where
Brissenden
and
he
lounged
in
capacious
leather
chairs
and
drank
Scotch
and
soda
.
They
talked
. They
talked
about
many
things
, and
now
Brissenden
and
now
Martin
took
turn
in
ordering
Scotch
and
soda
. Martin
, who
was
extremely
strong-headed
, marvelled
at
the
other’s
capacity
for
liquor
, and
ever
and
anon
broke
off
to
marvel
at
the
other’s
conversation
. He
was
not
long
in
assuming
that
Brissenden
knew
everything
, and
in
deciding
that
here
was
the
second
intellectual
man
he
had
met
. But
he
noted
that
Brissenden
had
what
Professor
Caldwell
lacked—namely
, fire
, the
flashing
insight
and
perception
, the
flaming
uncontrol
of
genius
.
Living
language
flowed
from
him
. His
thin
lips
, like
the
dies
of
a
machine
, stamped
out
phrases
that
cut
and
stung
; or
again
, pursing
caressingly
about
the
inchoate
sound
they
articulated
, the
thin
lips
shaped
soft
and
velvety
things
, mellow
phrases
of
glow
and
glory
, of
haunting
beauty
, reverberant
of
the
mystery
and
inscrutableness
of
life
; and
yet
again
the
thin
lips
were
like
a
bugle
, from
which
rang
the
crash
and
tumult
of
cosmic
strife
, phrases
that
sounded
clear
as
silver
, that
were
luminous
as
starry
spaces
, that
epitomized
the
final
word
of
science
and
yet
said
something
more—the
poet’s
word
, the
transcendental
truth
, elusive
and
without
words
which
could
express
,
and
which
none
the
less
found
expression
in
the
subtle
and
all
but
ungraspable
connotations
of
common
words
. He
, by
some
wonder
of
vision
,
saw
beyond
the
farthest
outpost
of
empiricism
, where
was
no
language
for
narration
, and
yet
, by
some
golden
miracle
of
speech
, investing
known
words
with
unknown
significances
, he
conveyed
to
Martin’s
consciousness
messages
that
were
incommunicable
to
ordinary
souls
.
Martin
forgot
his
first
impression
of
dislike
. Here
was
the
best
the
books
had
to
offer
coming
true
. Here
was
an
intelligence
, a
living
man
for
him
to
look
up
to
. “I
am
down
in
the
dirt
at
your
feet
,”
Martin
repeated
to
himself
again
and
again
.
“You’ve
studied
biology
,”
he
said
aloud
, in
significant
allusion
.
To
his
surprise
Brissenden
shook
his
head
.
“But
you
are
stating
truths
that
are
substantiated
only
by
biology
,”
Martin
insisted
, and
was
rewarded
by
a
blank
stare
. “Your
conclusions
are
in
line
with
the
books
which
you
must
have
read
.”
“I
am
glad
to
hear
it
,”
was
the
answer
. “That
my
smattering
of
knowledge
should
enable
me
to
short-cut
my
way
to
truth
is
most
reassuring
. As
for
myself
, I
never
bother
to
find
out
if
I
am
right
or
not
. It
is
all
valueless
anyway
. Man
can
never
know
the
ultimate
verities
.”
“You
are
a
disciple
of
Spencer
!”
Martin
cried
triumphantly
.
“I
haven’t
read
him
since
adolescence
, and
all
I
read
then
was
his
‘Education
.’”
“I
wish
I
could
gather
knowledge
as
carelessly
,”
Martin
broke
out
half
an
hour
later
. He
had
been
closely
analyzing
Brissenden’s
mental
equipment
. “You
are
a
sheer
dogmatist
, and
that’s
what
makes
it
so
marvellous
. You
state
dogmatically
the
latest
facts
which
science
has
been
able
to
establish
only
by
_à
posteriori_
reasoning
. You
jump
at
correct
conclusions
. You
certainly
short-cut
with
a
vengeance
. You
feel
your
way
with
the
speed
of
light
, by
some
hyperrational
process
, to
truth
.”
“Yes
, that
was
what
used
to
bother
Father
Joseph
, and
Brother
Dutton
,”
Brissenden
replied
. “Oh
, no
,”
he
added
; “I
am
not
anything
. It
was
a
lucky
trick
of
fate
that
sent
me
to
a
Catholic
college
for
my
education
. Where
did
you
pick
up
what
you
know
?”
And
while
Martin
told
him
, he
was
busy
studying
Brissenden
, ranging
from
a
long
, lean
, aristocratic
face
and
drooping
shoulders
to
the
overcoat
on
a
neighboring
chair
, its
pockets
sagged
and
bulged
by
the
freightage
of
many
books
. Brissenden’s
face
and
long
, slender
hands
were
browned
by
the
sun—excessively
browned
, Martin
thought
. This
sunburn
bothered
Martin
. It
was
patent
that
Brissenden
was
no
outdoor
man
. Then
how
had
he
been
ravaged
by
the
sun
? Something
morbid
and
significant
attached
to
that
sunburn
, was
Martin’s
thought
as
he
returned
to
a
study
of
the
face
, narrow
, with
high
cheek-bones
and
cavernous
hollows
, and
graced
with
as
delicate
and
fine
an
aquiline
nose
as
Martin
had
ever
seen
. There
was
nothing
remarkable
about
the
size
of
the
eyes
. They
were
neither
large
nor
small
, while
their
color
was
a
nondescript
brown
; but
in
them
smouldered
a
fire
, or
, rather
,
lurked
an
expression
dual
and
strangely
contradictory
. Defiant
,
indomitable
, even
harsh
to
excess
, they
at
the
same
time
aroused
pity
.
Martin
found
himself
pitying
him
he
knew
not
why
, though
he
was
soon
to
learn
.
“Oh
, I’m
a
lunger
,”
Brissenden
announced
, offhand
, a
little
later
,
having
already
stated
that
he
came
from
Arizona
. “I’ve
been
down
there
a
couple
of
years
living
on
the
climate
.”
“Aren’t
you
afraid
to
venture
it
up
in
this
climate
?”
“Afraid
?”
There
was
no
special
emphasis
of
his
repetition
of
Martin’s
word
. But
Martin
saw
in
that
ascetic
face
the
advertisement
that
there
was
nothing
of
which
it
was
afraid
. The
eyes
had
narrowed
till
they
were
eagle-like
, and
Martin
almost
caught
his
breath
as
he
noted
the
eagle
beak
with
its
dilated
nostrils
, defiant
, assertive
, aggressive
.
Magnificent
, was
what
he
commented
to
himself
, his
blood
thrilling
at
the
sight
. Aloud
, he
quoted
:-
“‘Under
the
bludgeoning
of
Chance
My
head
is
bloody
but
unbowed
.’”
“You
like
Henley
,”
Brissenden
said
, his
expression
changing
swiftly
to
large
graciousness
and
tenderness
. “Of
course
, I
couldn’t
have
expected
anything
else
of
you
. Ah
, Henley
! A
brave
soul
. He
stands
out
among
contemporary
rhymesters—magazine
rhymesters—as
a
gladiator
stands
out
in
the
midst
of
a
band
of
eunuchs
.”
“You
don’t
like
the
magazines
,”
Martin
softly
impeached
.
“Do
you
?”
was
snarled
back
at
him
so
savagely
as
to
startle
him
.
“I—I
write
, or
, rather
, try
to
write
, for
the
magazines
,”
Martin
faltered
.
“That’s
better
,”
was
the
mollified
rejoinder
. “You
try
to
write
, but
you
don’t
succeed
. I
respect
and
admire
your
failure
. I
know
what
you
write
. I
can
see
it
with
half
an
eye
, and
there’s
one
ingredient
in
it
that
shuts
it
out
of
the
magazines
. It’s
guts
, and
magazines
have
no
use
for
that
particular
commodity
. What
they
want
is
wish-wash
and
slush
, and
God
knows
they
get
it
, but
not
from
you
.”
“I’m
not
above
hack-work
,”
Martin
contended
.
“On
the
contrary—”
Brissenden
paused
and
ran
an
insolent
eye
over
Martin’s
objective
poverty
, passing
from
the
well-worn
tie
and
the
saw-edged
collar
to
the
shiny
sleeves
of
the
coat
and
on
to
the
slight
fray
of
one
cuff
, winding
up
and
dwelling
upon
Martin’s
sunken
cheeks
.
“On
the
contrary
, hack-work
is
above
you
, so
far
above
you
that
you
can
never
hope
to
rise
to
it
. Why
, man
, I
could
insult
you
by
asking
you
to
have
something
to
eat
.”
Martin
felt
the
heat
in
his
face
of
the
involuntary
blood
, and
Brissenden
laughed
triumphantly
.
“A
full
man
is
not
insulted
by
such
an
invitation
,”
he
concluded
.
“You
are
a
devil
,”
Martin
cried
irritably
.
“Anyway
, I
didn’t
ask
you
.”
“You
didn’t
dare
.”
“Oh
, I
don’t
know
about
that
. I
invite
you
now
.”
Brissenden
half
rose
from
his
chair
as
he
spoke
, as
if
with
the
intention
of
departing
to
the
restaurant
forthwith
.
Martin’s
fists
were
tight-clenched
, and
his
blood
was
drumming
in
his
temples
.
“Bosco
! He
eats
’em
alive
! Eats
’em
alive
!”
Brissenden
exclaimed
,
imitating
the
_spieler_
of
a
locally
famous
snake-eater
.
“I
could
certainly
eat
you
alive
,”
Martin
said
, in
turn
running
insolent
eyes
over
the
other’s
disease-ravaged
frame
.
“Only
I’m
not
worthy
of
it
?”
“On
the
contrary
,”
Martin
considered
, “because
the
incident
is
not
worthy
.”
He
broke
into
a
laugh
, hearty
and
wholesome
. “I
confess
you
made
a
fool
of
me
, Brissenden
. That
I
am
hungry
and
you
are
aware
of
it
are
only
ordinary
phenomena
, and
there’s
no
disgrace
. You
see
, I
laugh
at
the
conventional
little
moralities
of
the
herd
; then
you
drift
by
,
say
a
sharp
, true
word
, and
immediately
I
am
the
slave
of
the
same
little
moralities
.”
“You
were
insulted
,”
Brissenden
affirmed
.
“I
certainly
was
, a
moment
ago
. The
prejudice
of
early
youth
, you
know
.
I
learned
such
things
then
, and
they
cheapen
what
I
have
since
learned
.
They
are
the
skeletons
in
my
particular
closet
.”
“But
you’ve
got
the
door
shut
on
them
now
?”
“I
certainly
have
.”
“Sure
?”
“Sure
.”
“Then
let’s
go
and
get
something
to
eat
.”
“I’ll
go
you
,”
Martin
answered
, attempting
to
pay
for
the
current
Scotch
and
soda
with
the
last
change
from
his
two
dollars
and
seeing
the
waiter
bullied
by
Brissenden
into
putting
that
change
back
on
the
table
.
Martin
pocketed
it
with
a
grimace
, and
felt
for
a
moment
the
kindly
weight
of
Brissenden’s
hand
upon
his
shoulder
.
CHAPTER
XXXII
.
Promptly
, the
next
afternoon
, Maria
was
excited
by
Martin’s
second
visitor
. But
she
did
not
lose
her
head
this
time
, for
she
seated
Brissenden
in
her
parlor’s
grandeur
of
respectability
.
“Hope
you
don’t
mind
my
coming
?”
Brissenden
began
.
“No
, no
, not
at
all
,”
Martin
answered
, shaking
hands
and
waving
him
to
the
solitary
chair
, himself
taking
to
the
bed
. “But
how
did
you
know
where
I
lived
?”
“Called
up
the
Morses
. Miss
Morse
answered
the
’phone
. And
here
I
am
.”
He
tugged
at
his
coat
pocket
and
flung
a
thin
volume
on
the
table
.
“There’s
a
book
, by
a
poet
. Read
it
and
keep
it
.”
And
then
, in
reply
to
Martin’s
protest
: “What
have
I
to
do
with
books
? I
had
another
hemorrhage
this
morning
. Got
any
whiskey
? No
, of
course
not
. Wait
a
minute
.”
He
was
off
and
away
. Martin
watched
his
long
figure
go
down
the
outside
steps
, and
, on
turning
to
close
the
gate
, noted
with
a
pang
the
shoulders
, which
had
once
been
broad
, drawn
in
now
over
the
collapsed
ruin
of
the
chest
. Martin
got
two
tumblers
, and
fell
to
reading
the
book
of
verse
, Henry
Vaughn
Marlow’s
latest
collection
.
“No
Scotch
,”
Brissenden
announced
on
his
return
. “The
beggar
sells
nothing
but
American
whiskey
. But
here’s
a
quart
of
it
.”
“I’ll
send
one
of
the
youngsters
for
lemons
, and
we’ll
make
a
toddy
,”
Martin
offered
.
“I
wonder
what
a
book
like
that
will
earn
Marlow
?”
he
went
on
, holding
up
the
volume
in
question
.
“Possibly
fifty
dollars
,”
came
the
answer
. “Though
he’s
lucky
if
he
pulls
even
on
it
, or
if
he
can
inveigle
a
publisher
to
risk
bringing
it
out
.”
“Then
one
can’t
make
a
living
out
of
poetry
?”
Martin’s
tone
and
face
alike
showed
his
dejection
.
“Certainly
not
. What
fool
expects
to
? Out
of
rhyming
, yes
. There’s
Bruce
, and
Virginia
Spring
, and
Sedgwick
. They
do
very
nicely
. But
poetry—do
you
know
how
Vaughn
Marlow
makes
his
living
?—teaching
in
a
boys’
cramming-joint
down
in
Pennsylvania
, and
of
all
private
little
hells
such
a
billet
is
the
limit
. I
wouldn’t
trade
places
with
him
if
he
had
fifty
years
of
life
before
him
. And
yet
his
work
stands
out
from
the
ruck
of
the
contemporary
versifiers
as
a
balas
ruby
among
carrots
.
And
the
reviews
he
gets
! Damn
them
, all
of
them
, the
crass
manikins
!”
“Too
much
is
written
by
the
men
who
can’t
write
about
the
men
who
do
write
,”
Martin
concurred
. “Why
, I
was
appalled
at
the
quantities
of
rubbish
written
about
Stevenson
and
his
work
.”
“Ghouls
and
harpies
!”
Brissenden
snapped
out
with
clicking
teeth
. “Yes
,
I
know
the
spawn—complacently
pecking
at
him
for
his
Father
Damien
letter
, analyzing
him
, weighing
him—”
“Measuring
him
by
the
yardstick
of
their
own
miserable
egos
,”
Martin
broke
in
.
“Yes
, that’s
it
, a
good
phrase
,—mouthing
and
besliming
the
True
, and
Beautiful
, and
Good
, and
finally
patting
him
on
the
back
and
saying
,
‘Good
dog
, Fido
.’
Faugh
! ‘The
little
chattering
daws
of
men
,’
Richard
Realf
called
them
the
night
he
died
.”
“Pecking
at
star-dust
,”
Martin
took
up
the
strain
warmly
; “at
the
meteoric
flight
of
the
master-men
. I
once
wrote
a
squib
on
them—the
critics
, or
the
reviewers
, rather
.”
“Let’s
see
it
,”
Brissenden
begged
eagerly
.
So
Martin
unearthed
a
carbon
copy
of
“Star-dust
,”
and
during
the
reading
of
it
Brissenden
chuckled
, rubbed
his
hands
, and
forgot
to
sip
his
toddy
.
“Strikes
me
you’re
a
bit
of
star-dust
yourself
, flung
into
a
world
of
cowled
gnomes
who
cannot
see
,”
was
his
comment
at
the
end
of
it
. “Of
course
it
was
snapped
up
by
the
first
magazine
?”
Martin
ran
over
the
pages
of
his
manuscript
book
. “It
has
been
refused
by
twenty-seven
of
them
.”
Brissenden
essayed
a
long
and
hearty
laugh
, but
broke
down
in
a
fit
of
coughing
.
“Say
, you
needn’t
tell
me
you
haven’t
tackled
poetry
,”
he
gasped
. “Let
me
see
some
of
it
.”
“Don’t
read
it
now
,”
Martin
pleaded
. “I
want
to
talk
with
you
. I’ll
make
up
a
bundle
and
you
can
take
it
home
.”
Brissenden
departed
with
the
“Love-cycle
,”
and
“The
Peri
and
the
Pearl
,”
returning
next
day
to
greet
Martin
with
:-
“I
want
more
.”
Not
only
did
he
assure
Martin
that
he
was
a
poet
, but
Martin
learned
that
Brissenden
also
was
one
. He
was
swept
off
his
feet
by
the
other’s
work
, and
astounded
that
no
attempt
had
been
made
to
publish
it
.
“A
plague
on
all
their
houses
!”
was
Brissenden’s
answer
to
Martin’s
volunteering
to
market
his
work
for
him
. “Love
Beauty
for
its
own
sake
,”
was
his
counsel
, “and
leave
the
magazines
alone
. Back
to
your
ships
and
your
sea—that’s
my
advice
to
you
, Martin
Eden
. What
do
you
want
in
these
sick
and
rotten
cities
of
men
? You
are
cutting
your
throat
every
day
you
waste
in
them
trying
to
prostitute
beauty
to
the
needs
of
magazinedom
. What
was
it
you
quoted
me
the
other
day
?—Oh
, yes
,
‘Man
, the
latest
of
the
ephemera
.’
Well
, what
do
you
, the
latest
of
the
ephemera
, want
with
fame
? If
you
got
it
, it
would
be
poison
to
you
. You
are
too
simple
, too
elemental
, and
too
rational
, by
my
faith
, to
prosper
on
such
pap
. I
hope
you
never
do
sell
a
line
to
the
magazines
.
Beauty
is
the
only
master
to
serve
. Serve
her
and
damn
the
multitude
!
Success
! What
in
hell’s
success
if
it
isn’t
right
there
in
your
Stevenson
sonnet
, which
outranks
Henley’s
‘Apparition
,’
in
that
‘Love-cycle
,’
in
those
sea-poems
?
“It
is
not
in
what
you
succeed
in
doing
that
you
get
your
joy
, but
in
the
doing
of
it
. You
can’t
tell
me
. I
know
it
. You
know
it
. Beauty
hurts
you
. It
is
an
everlasting
pain
in
you
, a
wound
that
does
not
heal
, a
knife
of
flame
. Why
should
you
palter
with
magazines
? Let
beauty
be
your
end
. Why
should
you
mint
beauty
into
gold
? Anyway
, you
can’t
; so
there’s
no
use
in
my
getting
excited
over
it
. You
can
read
the
magazines
for
a
thousand
years
and
you
won’t
find
the
value
of
one
line
of
Keats
. Leave
fame
and
coin
alone
, sign
away
on
a
ship
to-morrow
, and
go
back
to
your
sea
.”
“Not
for
fame
, but
for
love
,”
Martin
laughed
. “Love
seems
to
have
no
place
in
your
Cosmos
; in
mine
, Beauty
is
the
handmaiden
of
Love
.”
Brissenden
looked
at
him
pityingly
and
admiringly
. “You
are
so
young
,
Martin
boy
, so
young
. You
will
flutter
high
, but
your
wings
are
of
the
finest
gauze
, dusted
with
the
fairest
pigments
. Do
not
scorch
them
. But
of
course
you
have
scorched
them
already
. It
required
some
glorified
petticoat
to
account
for
that
‘Love-cycle
,’
and
that’s
the
shame
of
it
.”
“It
glorifies
love
as
well
as
the
petticoat
,”
Martin
laughed
.
“The
philosophy
of
madness
,”
was
the
retort
. “So
have
I
assured
myself
when
wandering
in
hasheesh
dreams
. But
beware
. These
bourgeois
cities
will
kill
you
. Look
at
that
den
of
traitors
where
I
met
you
. Dry
rot
is
no
name
for
it
. One
can’t
keep
his
sanity
in
such
an
atmosphere
. It’s
degrading
. There’s
not
one
of
them
who
is
not
degrading
, man
and
woman
,
all
of
them
animated
stomachs
guided
by
the
high
intellectual
and
artistic
impulses
of
clams—”
He
broke
off
suddenly
and
regarded
Martin
. Then
, with
a
flash
of
divination
, he
saw
the
situation
. The
expression
on
his
face
turned
to
wondering
horror
.
“And
you
wrote
that
tremendous
‘Love-cycle’
to
her—that
pale
,
shrivelled
, female
thing
!”
The
next
instant
Martin’s
right
hand
had
shot
to
a
throttling
clutch
on
his
throat
, and
he
was
being
shaken
till
his
teeth
rattled
. But
Martin
,
looking
into
his
eyes
, saw
no
fear
there
,—naught
but
a
curious
and
mocking
devil
. Martin
remembered
himself
, and
flung
Brissenden
, by
the
neck
, sidelong
upon
the
bed
, at
the
same
moment
releasing
his
hold
.
Brissenden
panted
and
gasped
painfully
for
a
moment
, then
began
to
chuckle
.
“You
had
made
me
eternally
your
debtor
had
you
shaken
out
the
flame
,”
he
said
.
“My
nerves
are
on
a
hair-trigger
these
days
,”
Martin
apologized
. “Hope
I
didn’t
hurt
you
. Here
, let
me
mix
a
fresh
toddy
.”
“Ah
, you
young
Greek
!”
Brissenden
went
on
. “I
wonder
if
you
take
just
pride
in
that
body
of
yours
. You
are
devilish
strong
. You
are
a
young
panther
, a
lion
cub
. Well
, well
, it
is
you
who
must
pay
for
that
strength
.”
“What
do
you
mean
?”
Martin
asked
curiously
, passing
him
a
glass
. “Here
,
down
this
and
be
good
.”
“Because—”
Brissenden
sipped
his
toddy
and
smiled
appreciation
of
it
.
“Because
of
the
women
. They
will
worry
you
until
you
die
, as
they
have
already
worried
you
, or
else
I
was
born
yesterday
. Now
there’s
no
use
in
your
choking
me
; I’m
going
to
have
my
say
. This
is
undoubtedly
your
calf
love
; but
for
Beauty’s
sake
show
better
taste
next
time
. What
under
heaven
do
you
want
with
a
daughter
of
the
bourgeoisie
? Leave
them
alone
. Pick
out
some
great
, wanton
flame
of
a
woman
, who
laughs
at
life
and
jeers
at
death
and
loves
one
while
she
may
. There
are
such
women
,
and
they
will
love
you
just
as
readily
as
any
pusillanimous
product
of
bourgeois
sheltered
life
.”
“Pusillanimous
?”
Martin
protested
.
“Just
so
, pusillanimous
; prattling
out
little
moralities
that
have
been
prattled
into
them
, and
afraid
to
live
life
. They
will
love
you
,
Martin
, but
they
will
love
their
little
moralities
more
. What
you
want
is
the
magnificent
abandon
of
life
, the
great
free
souls
, the
blazing
butterflies
and
not
the
little
gray
moths
. Oh
, you
will
grow
tired
of
them
, too
, of
all
the
female
things
, if
you
are
unlucky
enough
to
live
.
But
you
won’t
live
. You
won’t
go
back
to
your
ships
and
sea
; therefore
,
you’ll
hang
around
these
pest-holes
of
cities
until
your
bones
are
rotten
, and
then
you’ll
die
.”
“You
can
lecture
me
, but
you
can’t
make
me
talk
back
,”
Martin
said
.
“After
all
, you
have
but
the
wisdom
of
your
temperament
, and
the
wisdom
of
my
temperament
is
just
as
unimpeachable
as
yours
.”
They
disagreed
about
love
, and
the
magazines
, and
many
things
, but
they
liked
each
other
, and
on
Martin’s
part
it
was
no
less
than
a
profound
liking
. Day
after
day
they
were
together
, if
for
no
more
than
the
hour
Brissenden
spent
in
Martin’s
stuffy
room
. Brissenden
never
arrived
without
his
quart
of
whiskey
, and
when
they
dined
together
down-town
,
he
drank
Scotch
and
soda
throughout
the
meal
. He
invariably
paid
the
way
for
both
, and
it
was
through
him
that
Martin
learned
the
refinements
of
food
, drank
his
first
champagne
, and
made
acquaintance
with
Rhenish
wines
.
But
Brissenden
was
always
an
enigma
. With
the
face
of
an
ascetic
, he
was
, in
all
the
failing
blood
of
him
, a
frank
voluptuary
. He
was
unafraid
to
die
, bitter
and
cynical
of
all
the
ways
of
living
; and
yet
,
dying
, he
loved
life
, to
the
last
atom
of
it
. He
was
possessed
by
a
madness
to
live
, to
thrill
, “to
squirm
my
little
space
in
the
cosmic
dust
whence
I
came
,”
as
he
phrased
it
once
himself
. He
had
tampered
with
drugs
and
done
many
strange
things
in
quest
of
new
thrills
, new
sensations
. As
he
told
Martin
, he
had
once
gone
three
days
without
water
, had
done
so
voluntarily
, in
order
to
experience
the
exquisite
delight
of
such
a
thirst
assuaged
. Who
or
what
he
was
, Martin
never
learned
. He
was
a
man
without
a
past
, whose
future
was
the
imminent
grave
and
whose
present
was
a
bitter
fever
of
living
.
CHAPTER
XXXIII
.
Martin
was
steadily
losing
his
battle
. Economize
as
he
would
, the
earnings
from
hack-work
did
not
balance
expenses
. Thanksgiving
found
him
with
his
black
suit
in
pawn
and
unable
to
accept
the
Morses’
invitation
to
dinner
. Ruth
was
not
made
happy
by
his
reason
for
not
coming
, and
the
corresponding
effect
on
him
was
one
of
desperation
. He
told
her
that
he
would
come
, after
all
; that
he
would
go
over
to
San
Francisco
, to
the
_Transcontinental_
office
, collect
the
five
dollars
due
him
, and
with
it
redeem
his
suit
of
clothes
.
In
the
morning
he
borrowed
ten
cents
from
Maria
. He
would
have
borrowed
it
, by
preference
, from
Brissenden
, but
that
erratic
individual
had
disappeared
. Two
weeks
had
passed
since
Martin
had
seen
him
, and
he
vainly
cudgelled
his
brains
for
some
cause
of
offence
. The
ten
cents
carried
Martin
across
the
ferry
to
San
Francisco
, and
as
he
walked
up
Market
Street
he
speculated
upon
his
predicament
in
case
he
failed
to
collect
the
money
. There
would
then
be
no
way
for
him
to
return
to
Oakland
, and
he
knew
no
one
in
San
Francisco
from
whom
to
borrow
another
ten
cents
.
The
door
to
the
_Transcontinental_
office
was
ajar
, and
Martin
, in
the
act
of
opening
it
, was
brought
to
a
sudden
pause
by
a
loud
voice
from
within
, which
exclaimed
:-
“But
that
is
not
the
question
, Mr
. Ford
.”
(Ford
, Martin
knew
, from
his
correspondence
, to
be
the
editor’s
name
.)
“The
question
is
, are
you
prepared
to
pay
?—cash
, and
cash
down
, I
mean
?
I
am
not
interested
in
the
prospects
of
the
_Transcontinental_
and
what
you
expect
to
make
it
next
year
. What
I
want
is
to
be
paid
for
what
I
do
. And
I
tell
you
, right
now
, the
Christmas
_Transcontinental_
don’t
go
to
press
till
I
have
the
money
in
my
hand
. Good
day
. When
you
get
the
money
, come
and
see
me
.”
The
door
jerked
open
, and
the
man
flung
past
Martin
, with
an
angry
countenance
and
went
down
the
corridor
, muttering
curses
and
clenching
his
fists
. Martin
decided
not
to
enter
immediately
, and
lingered
in
the
hallways
for
a
quarter
of
an
hour
. Then
he
shoved
the
door
open
and
walked
in
. It
was
a
new
experience
, the
first
time
he
had
been
inside
an
editorial
office
. Cards
evidently
were
not
necessary
in
that
office
,
for
the
boy
carried
word
to
an
inner
room
that
there
was
a
man
who
wanted
to
see
Mr
. Ford
. Returning
, the
boy
beckoned
him
from
halfway
across
the
room
and
led
him
to
the
private
office
, the
editorial
sanctum
. Martin’s
first
impression
was
of
the
disorder
and
cluttered
confusion
of
the
room
. Next
he
noticed
a
bewhiskered
, youthful-looking
man
, sitting
at
a
roll-top
desk
, who
regarded
him
curiously
. Martin
marvelled
at
the
calm
repose
of
his
face
. It
was
evident
that
the
squabble
with
the
printer
had
not
affected
his
equanimity
.
“I—I
am
Martin
Eden
,”
Martin
began
the
conversation
. (“And
I
want
my
five
dollars
,”
was
what
he
would
have
liked
to
say
.)
But
this
was
his
first
editor
, and
under
the
circumstances
he
did
not
desire
to
scare
him
too
abruptly
. To
his
surprise
, Mr
. Ford
leaped
into
the
air
with
a
“You
don’t
say
so
!”
and
the
next
moment
, with
both
hands
, was
shaking
Martin’s
hand
effusively
.
“Can’t
say
how
glad
I
am
to
see
you
, Mr
. Eden
. Often
wondered
what
you
were
like
.”
Here
he
held
Martin
off
at
arm’s
length
and
ran
his
beaming
eyes
over
Martin’s
second-best
suit
, which
was
also
his
worst
suit
, and
which
was
ragged
and
past
repair
, though
the
trousers
showed
the
careful
crease
he
had
put
in
with
Maria’s
flat-irons
.
“I
confess
, though
, I
conceived
you
to
be
a
much
older
man
than
you
are
. Your
story
, you
know
, showed
such
breadth
, and
vigor
, such
maturity
and
depth
of
thought
. A
masterpiece
, that
story—I
knew
it
when
I
had
read
the
first
half-dozen
lines
. Let
me
tell
you
how
I
first
read
it
. But
no
; first
let
me
introduce
you
to
the
staff
.”
Still
talking
, Mr
. Ford
led
him
into
the
general
office
, where
he
introduced
him
to
the
associate
editor
, Mr
. White
, a
slender
, frail
little
man
whose
hand
seemed
strangely
cold
, as
if
he
were
suffering
from
a
chill
, and
whose
whiskers
were
sparse
and
silky
.
“And
Mr
. Ends
, Mr
. Eden
. Mr
. Ends
is
our
business
manager
, you
know
.”
Martin
found
himself
shaking
hands
with
a
cranky-eyed
, bald-headed
man
,
whose
face
looked
youthful
enough
from
what
little
could
be
seen
of
it
,
for
most
of
it
was
covered
by
a
snow-white
beard
, carefully
trimmed—by
his
wife
, who
did
it
on
Sundays
, at
which
times
she
also
shaved
the
back
of
his
neck
.
The
three
men
surrounded
Martin
, all
talking
admiringly
and
at
once
,
until
it
seemed
to
him
that
they
were
talking
against
time
for
a
wager
.
“We
often
wondered
why
you
didn’t
call
,”
Mr
. White
was
saying
.
“I
didn’t
have
the
carfare
, and
I
live
across
the
Bay
,”
Martin
answered
bluntly
, with
the
idea
of
showing
them
his
imperative
need
for
the
money
.
Surely
, he
thought
to
himself
, my
glad
rags
in
themselves
are
eloquent
advertisement
of
my
need
. Time
and
again
, whenever
opportunity
offered
,
he
hinted
about
the
purpose
of
his
business
. But
his
admirers’
ears
were
deaf
. They
sang
his
praises
, told
him
what
they
had
thought
of
his
story
at
first
sight
, what
they
subsequently
thought
, what
their
wives
and
families
thought
; but
not
one
hint
did
they
breathe
of
intention
to
pay
him
for
it
.
“Did
I
tell
you
how
I
first
read
your
story
?”
Mr
. Ford
said
. “Of
course
I
didn’t
. I
was
coming
west
from
New
York
, and
when
the
train
stopped
at
Ogden
, the
train-boy
on
the
new
run
brought
aboard
the
current
number
of
the
_Transcontinental_
.”
My
God
! Martin
thought
; you
can
travel
in
a
Pullman
while
I
starve
for
the
paltry
five
dollars
you
owe
me
. A
wave
of
anger
rushed
over
him
.
The
wrong
done
him
by
the
_Transcontinental_
loomed
colossal
, for
strong
upon
him
were
all
the
dreary
months
of
vain
yearning
, of
hunger
and
privation
, and
his
present
hunger
awoke
and
gnawed
at
him
,
reminding
him
that
he
had
eaten
nothing
since
the
day
before
, and
little
enough
then
. For
the
moment
he
saw
red
. These
creatures
were
not
even
robbers
. They
were
sneak-thieves
. By
lies
and
broken
promises
they
had
tricked
him
out
of
his
story
. Well
, he
would
show
them
. And
a
great
resolve
surged
into
his
will
to
the
effect
that
he
would
not
leave
the
office
until
he
got
his
money
. He
remembered
, if
he
did
not
get
it
,
that
there
was
no
way
for
him
to
go
back
to
Oakland
. He
controlled
himself
with
an
effort
, but
not
before
the
wolfish
expression
of
his
face
had
awed
and
perturbed
them
.
They
became
more
voluble
than
ever
. Mr
. Ford
started
anew
to
tell
how
he
had
first
read
“The
Ring
of
Bells
,”
and
Mr
. Ends
at
the
same
time
was
striving
to
repeat
his
niece’s
appreciation
of
“The
Ring
of
Bells
,”
said
niece
being
a
school-teacher
in
Alameda
.
“I’ll
tell
you
what
I
came
for
,”
Martin
said
finally
. “To
be
paid
for
that
story
all
of
you
like
so
well
. Five
dollars
, I
believe
, is
what
you
promised
me
would
be
paid
on
publication
.”
Mr
. Ford
, with
an
expression
on
his
mobile
features
of
mediate
and
happy
acquiescence
, started
to
reach
for
his
pocket
, then
turned
suddenly
to
Mr
. Ends
, and
said
that
he
had
left
his
money
home
. That
Mr
. Ends
resented
this
, was
patent
; and
Martin
saw
the
twitch
of
his
arm
as
if
to
protect
his
trousers
pocket
. Martin
knew
that
the
money
was
there
.
“I
am
sorry
,”
said
Mr
. Ends
, “but
I
paid
the
printer
not
an
hour
ago
,
and
he
took
my
ready
change
. It
was
careless
of
me
to
be
so
short
; but
the
bill
was
not
yet
due
, and
the
printer’s
request
, as
a
favor
, to
make
an
immediate
advance
, was
quite
unexpected
.”
Both
men
looked
expectantly
at
Mr
. White
, but
that
gentleman
laughed
and
shrugged
his
shoulders
. His
conscience
was
clean
at
any
rate
. He
had
come
into
the
_Transcontinental_
to
learn
magazine-literature
,
instead
of
which
he
had
principally
learned
finance
. The
_Transcontinental_
owed
him
four
months’
salary
, and
he
knew
that
the
printer
must
be
appeased
before
the
associate
editor
.
“It’s
rather
absurd
, Mr
. Eden
, to
have
caught
us
in
this
shape
,”
Mr
.
Ford
preambled
airily
. “All
carelessness
, I
assure
you
. But
I’ll
tell
you
what
we’ll
do
. We’ll
mail
you
a
check
the
first
thing
in
the
morning
. You
have
Mr
. Eden’s
address
, haven’t
you
, Mr
. Ends
?”
Yes
, Mr
. Ends
had
the
address
, and
the
check
would
be
mailed
the
first
thing
in
the
morning
. Martin’s
knowledge
of
banks
and
checks
was
hazy
,
but
he
could
see
no
reason
why
they
should
not
give
him
the
check
on
this
day
just
as
well
as
on
the
next
.
“Then
it
is
understood
, Mr
. Eden
, that
we’ll
mail
you
the
check
to-morrow
?”
Mr
. Ford
said
.
“I
need
the
money
to-day
,”
Martin
answered
stolidly
.
“The
unfortunate
circumstances—if
you
had
chanced
here
any
other
day
,”
Mr
. Ford
began
suavely
, only
to
be
interrupted
by
Mr
. Ends
, whose
cranky
eyes
justified
themselves
in
his
shortness
of
temper
.
“Mr
. Ford
has
already
explained
the
situation
,”
he
said
with
asperity
.
“And
so
have
I
. The
check
will
be
mailed—”
“I
also
have
explained
,”
Martin
broke
in
, “and
I
have
explained
that
I
want
the
money
to-day
.”
He
had
felt
his
pulse
quicken
a
trifle
at
the
business
manager’s
brusqueness
, and
upon
him
he
kept
an
alert
eye
, for
it
was
in
that
gentleman’s
trousers
pocket
that
he
divined
the
_Transcontinental’s_
ready
cash
was
reposing
.
“It
is
too
bad—”
Mr
. Ford
began
.
But
at
that
moment
, with
an
impatient
movement
, Mr
. Ends
turned
as
if
about
to
leave
the
room
. At
the
same
instant
Martin
sprang
for
him
,
clutching
him
by
the
throat
with
one
hand
in
such
fashion
that
Mr
.
Ends’
snow-white
beard
, still
maintaining
its
immaculate
trimness
,
pointed
ceilingward
at
an
angle
of
forty-five
degrees
. To
the
horror
of
Mr
. White
and
Mr
. Ford
, they
saw
their
business
manager
shaken
like
an
Astrakhan
rug
.
“Dig
up
, you
venerable
discourager
of
rising
young
talent
!”
Martin
exhorted
. “Dig
up
, or
I’ll
shake
it
out
of
you
, even
if
it’s
all
in
nickels
.”
Then
, to
the
two
affrighted
onlookers
: “Keep
away
! If
you
interfere
, somebody’s
liable
to
get
hurt
.”
Mr
. Ends
was
choking
, and
it
was
not
until
the
grip
on
his
throat
was
eased
that
he
was
able
to
signify
his
acquiescence
in
the
digging-up
programme
. All
together
, after
repeated
digs
, its
trousers
pocket
yielded
four
dollars
and
fifteen
cents
.
“Inside
out
with
it
,”
Martin
commanded
.
An
additional
ten
cents
fell
out
. Martin
counted
the
result
of
his
raid
a
second
time
to
make
sure
.
“You
next
!”
he
shouted
at
Mr
. Ford
. “I
want
seventy-five
cents
more
.”
Mr
. Ford
did
not
wait
, but
ransacked
his
pockets
, with
the
result
of
sixty
cents
.
“Sure
that
is
all
?”
Martin
demanded
menacingly
, possessing
himself
of
it
. “What
have
you
got
in
your
vest
pockets
?”
In
token
of
his
good
faith
, Mr
. Ford
turned
two
of
his
pockets
inside
out
. A
strip
of
cardboard
fell
to
the
floor
from
one
of
them
. He
recovered
it
and
was
in
the
act
of
returning
it
, when
Martin
cried
:-
“What’s
that
?—A
ferry
ticket
? Here
, give
it
to
me
. It’s
worth
ten
cents
. I’ll
credit
you
with
it
. I’ve
now
got
four
dollars
and
ninety-five
cents
, including
the
ticket
. Five
cents
is
still
due
me
.”
He
looked
fiercely
at
Mr
. White
, and
found
that
fragile
creature
in
the
act
of
handing
him
a
nickel
.
“Thank
you
,”
Martin
said
, addressing
them
collectively
. “I
wish
you
a
good
day
.”
“Robber
!”
Mr
. Ends
snarled
after
him
.
“Sneak-thief
!”
Martin
retorted
, slamming
the
door
as
he
passed
out
.
Martin
was
elated—so
elated
that
when
he
recollected
that
_The
Hornet_
owed
him
fifteen
dollars
for
“The
Peri
and
the
Pearl
,”
he
decided
forthwith
to
go
and
collect
it
. But
_The
Hornet_
was
run
by
a
set
of
clean-shaven
, strapping
young
men
, frank
buccaneers
who
robbed
everything
and
everybody
, not
excepting
one
another
. After
some
breakage
of
the
office
furniture
, the
editor
(an
ex-college
athlete)
,
ably
assisted
by
the
business
manager
, an
advertising
agent
, and
the
porter
, succeeded
in
removing
Martin
from
the
office
and
in
accelerating
, by
initial
impulse
, his
descent
of
the
first
flight
of
stairs
.
“Come
again
, Mr
. Eden
; glad
to
see
you
any
time
,”
they
laughed
down
at
him
from
the
landing
above
.
Martin
grinned
as
he
picked
himself
up
.
“Phew
!”
he
murmured
back
. “The
_Transcontinental_
crowd
were
nanny-goats
, but
you
fellows
are
a
lot
of
prize-fighters
.”
More
laughter
greeted
this
.
“I
must
say
, Mr
. Eden
,”
the
editor
of
_The
Hornet_
called
down
, “that
for
a
poet
you
can
go
some
yourself
. Where
did
you
learn
that
right
cross—if
I
may
ask
?”
“Where
you
learned
that
half-Nelson
,”
Martin
answered
. “Anyway
, you’re
going
to
have
a
black
eye
.”
“I
hope
your
neck
doesn’t
stiffen
up
,”
the
editor
wished
solicitously
:
“What
do
you
say
we
all
go
out
and
have
a
drink
on
it—not
the
neck
, of
course
, but
the
little
rough-house
?”
“I’ll
go
you
if
I
lose
,”
Martin
accepted
.
And
robbers
and
robbed
drank
together
, amicably
agreeing
that
the
battle
was
to
the
strong
, and
that
the
fifteen
dollars
for
“The
Peri
and
the
Pearl”
belonged
by
right
to
_The
Hornet’s_
editorial
staff
.
CHAPTER
XXXIV
.
Arthur
remained
at
the
gate
while
Ruth
climbed
Maria’s
front
steps
. She
heard
the
rapid
click
of
the
type-writer
, and
when
Martin
let
her
in
,
found
him
on
the
last
page
of
a
manuscript
. She
had
come
to
make
certain
whether
or
not
he
would
be
at
their
table
for
Thanksgiving
dinner
; but
before
she
could
broach
the
subject
Martin
plunged
into
the
one
with
which
he
was
full
.
“Here
, let
me
read
you
this
,”
he
cried
, separating
the
carbon
copies
and
running
the
pages
of
manuscript
into
shape
. “It’s
my
latest
, and
different
from
anything
I’ve
done
. It
is
so
altogether
different
that
I
am
almost
afraid
of
it
, and
yet
I’ve
a
sneaking
idea
it
is
good
. You
be
judge
. It’s
an
Hawaiian
story
. I’ve
called
it
‘Wiki-wiki
.’”
His
face
was
bright
with
the
creative
glow
, though
she
shivered
in
the
cold
room
and
had
been
struck
by
the
coldness
of
his
hands
at
greeting
.
She
listened
closely
while
he
read
, and
though
he
from
time
to
time
had
seen
only
disapprobation
in
her
face
, at
the
close
he
asked
:-
“Frankly
, what
do
you
think
of
it
?”
“I—I
don’t
know
,”
she
, answered
. “Will
it—do
you
think
it
will
sell
?”
“I’m
afraid
not
,”
was
the
confession
. “It’s
too
strong
for
the
magazines
. But
it’s
true
, on
my
word
it’s
true
.”
“But
why
do
you
persist
in
writing
such
things
when
you
know
they
won’t
sell
?”
she
went
on
inexorably
. “The
reason
for
your
writing
is
to
make
a
living
, isn’t
it
?”
“Yes
, that’s
right
; but
the
miserable
story
got
away
with
me
. I
couldn’t
help
writing
it
. It
demanded
to
be
written
.”
“But
that
character
, that
Wiki-Wiki
, why
do
you
make
him
talk
so
roughly
? Surely
it
will
offend
your
readers
, and
surely
that
is
why
the
editors
are
justified
in
refusing
your
work
.”
“Because
the
real
Wiki-Wiki
would
have
talked
that
way
.”
“But
it
is
not
good
taste
.”
“It
is
life
,”
he
replied
bluntly
. “It
is
real
. It
is
true
. And
I
must
write
life
as
I
see
it
.”
She
made
no
answer
, and
for
an
awkward
moment
they
sat
silent
. It
was
because
he
loved
her
that
he
did
not
quite
understand
her
, and
she
could
not
understand
him
because
he
was
so
large
that
he
bulked
beyond
her
horizon
.
“Well
, I’ve
collected
from
the
_Transcontinental_
,”
he
said
in
an
effort
to
shift
the
conversation
to
a
more
comfortable
subject
. The
picture
of
the
bewhiskered
trio
, as
he
had
last
seen
them
, mulcted
of
four
dollars
and
ninety
cents
and
a
ferry
ticket
, made
him
chuckle
.
“Then
you’ll
come
!”
she
cried
joyously
. “That
was
what
I
came
to
find
out
.”
“Come
?”
he
muttered
absently
. “Where
?”
“Why
, to
dinner
to-morrow
. You
know
you
said
you’d
recover
your
suit
if
you
got
that
money
.”
“I
forgot
all
about
it
,”
he
said
humbly
. “You
see
, this
morning
the
poundman
got
Maria’s
two
cows
and
the
baby
calf
, and—well
, it
happened
that
Maria
didn’t
have
any
money
, and
so
I
had
to
recover
her
cows
for
her
. That’s
where
the
_Transcontinental_
fiver
went—‘The
Ring
of
Bells’
went
into
the
poundman’s
pocket
.”
“Then
you
won’t
come
?”
He
looked
down
at
his
clothing
.
“I
can’t
.”
Tears
of
disappointment
and
reproach
glistened
in
her
blue
eyes
, but
she
said
nothing
.
“Next
Thanksgiving
you’ll
have
dinner
with
me
in
Delmonico’s
,”
he
said
cheerily
; “or
in
London
, or
Paris
, or
anywhere
you
wish
. I
know
it
.”
“I
saw
in
the
paper
a
few
days
ago
,”
she
announced
abruptly
, “that
there
had
been
several
local
appointments
to
the
Railway
Mail
. You
passed
first
, didn’t
you
?”
He
was
compelled
to
admit
that
the
call
had
come
for
him
, but
that
he
had
declined
it
. “I
was
so
sure—I
am
so
sure—of
myself
,”
he
concluded
.
“A
year
from
now
I’ll
be
earning
more
than
a
dozen
men
in
the
Railway
Mail
. You
wait
and
see
.”
“Oh
,”
was
all
she
said
, when
he
finished
. She
stood
up
, pulling
at
her
gloves
. “I
must
go
, Martin
. Arthur
is
waiting
for
me
.”
He
took
her
in
his
arms
and
kissed
her
, but
she
proved
a
passive
sweetheart
. There
was
no
tenseness
in
her
body
, her
arms
did
not
go
around
him
, and
her
lips
met
his
without
their
wonted
pressure
.
She
was
angry
with
him
, he
concluded
, as
he
returned
from
the
gate
. But
why
? It
was
unfortunate
that
the
poundman
had
gobbled
Maria’s
cows
. But
it
was
only
a
stroke
of
fate
. Nobody
could
be
blamed
for
it
. Nor
did
it
enter
his
head
that
he
could
have
done
aught
otherwise
than
what
he
had
done
. Well
, yes
, he
was
to
blame
a
little
, was
his
next
thought
, for
having
refused
the
call
to
the
Railway
Mail
. And
she
had
not
liked
“Wiki-Wiki
.”
He
turned
at
the
head
of
the
steps
to
meet
the
letter-carrier
on
his
afternoon
round
. The
ever
recurrent
fever
of
expectancy
assailed
Martin
as
he
took
the
bundle
of
long
envelopes
. One
was
not
long
. It
was
short
and
thin
, and
outside
was
printed
the
address
of
_The
New
York
Outview_
. He
paused
in
the
act
of
tearing
the
envelope
open
. It
could
not
be
an
acceptance
. He
had
no
manuscripts
with
that
publication
.
Perhaps—his
heart
almost
stood
still
at
the—wild
thought—perhaps
they
were
ordering
an
article
from
him
; but
the
next
instant
he
dismissed
the
surmise
as
hopelessly
impossible
.
It
was
a
short
, formal
letter
, signed
by
the
office
editor
, merely
informing
him
that
an
anonymous
letter
which
they
had
received
was
enclosed
, and
that
he
could
rest
assured
the
_Outview’s_
staff
never
under
any
circumstances
gave
consideration
to
anonymous
correspondence
.
The
enclosed
letter
Martin
found
to
be
crudely
printed
by
hand
. It
was
a
hotchpotch
of
illiterate
abuse
of
Martin
, and
of
assertion
that
the
“so-called
Martin
Eden”
who
was
selling
stories
to
magazines
was
no
writer
at
all
, and
that
in
reality
he
was
stealing
stories
from
old
magazines
, typing
them
, and
sending
them
out
as
his
own
. The
envelope
was
postmarked
“San
Leandro
.”
Martin
did
not
require
a
second
thought
to
discover
the
author
. Higginbotham’s
grammar
, Higginbotham’s
colloquialisms
, Higginbotham’s
mental
quirks
and
processes
, were
apparent
throughout
. Martin
saw
in
every
line
, not
the
fine
Italian
hand
, but
the
coarse
grocer’s
fist
, of
his
brother-in-law
.
But
why
? he
vainly
questioned
. What
injury
had
he
done
Bernard
Higginbotham
? The
thing
was
so
unreasonable
, so
wanton
. There
was
no
explaining
it
. In
the
course
of
the
week
a
dozen
similar
letters
were
forwarded
to
Martin
by
the
editors
of
various
Eastern
magazines
. The
editors
were
behaving
handsomely
, Martin
concluded
. He
was
wholly
unknown
to
them
, yet
some
of
them
had
even
been
sympathetic
. It
was
evident
that
they
detested
anonymity
. He
saw
that
the
malicious
attempt
to
hurt
him
had
failed
. In
fact
, if
anything
came
of
it
, it
was
bound
to
be
good
, for
at
least
his
name
had
been
called
to
the
attention
of
a
number
of
editors
. Sometime
, perhaps
, reading
a
submitted
manuscript
of
his
, they
might
remember
him
as
the
fellow
about
whom
they
had
received
an
anonymous
letter
. And
who
was
to
say
that
such
a
remembrance
might
not
sway
the
balance
of
their
judgment
just
a
trifle
in
his
favor
?
It
was
about
this
time
that
Martin
took
a
great
slump
in
Maria’s
estimation
. He
found
her
in
the
kitchen
one
morning
groaning
with
pain
,
tears
of
weakness
running
down
her
cheeks
, vainly
endeavoring
to
put
through
a
large
ironing
. He
promptly
diagnosed
her
affliction
as
La
Grippe
, dosed
her
with
hot
whiskey
(the
remnants
in
the
bottles
for
which
Brissenden
was
responsible)
, and
ordered
her
to
bed
. But
Maria
was
refractory
. The
ironing
had
to
be
done
, she
protested
, and
delivered
that
night
, or
else
there
would
be
no
food
on
the
morrow
for
the
seven
small
and
hungry
Silvas
.
To
her
astonishment
(and
it
was
something
that
she
never
ceased
from
relating
to
her
dying
day)
, she
saw
Martin
Eden
seize
an
iron
from
the
stove
and
throw
a
fancy
shirt-waist
on
the
ironing-board
. It
was
Kate
Flanagan’s
best
Sunday
waist
, than
whom
there
was
no
more
exacting
and
fastidiously
dressed
woman
in
Maria’s
world
. Also
, Miss
Flanagan
had
sent
special
instruction
that
said
waist
must
be
delivered
by
that
night
. As
every
one
knew
, she
was
keeping
company
with
John
Collins
,
the
blacksmith
, and
, as
Maria
knew
privily
, Miss
Flanagan
and
Mr
.
Collins
were
going
next
day
to
Golden
Gate
Park
. Vain
was
Maria’s
attempt
to
rescue
the
garment
. Martin
guided
her
tottering
footsteps
to
a
chair
, from
where
she
watched
him
with
bulging
eyes
. In
a
quarter
of
the
time
it
would
have
taken
her
she
saw
the
shirt-waist
safely
ironed
,
and
ironed
as
well
as
she
could
have
done
it
, as
Martin
made
her
grant
.
“I
could
work
faster
,”
he
explained
, “if
your
irons
were
only
hotter
.”
To
her
, the
irons
he
swung
were
much
hotter
than
she
ever
dared
to
use
.
“Your
sprinkling
is
all
wrong
,”
he
complained
next
. “Here
, let
me
teach
you
how
to
sprinkle
. Pressure
is
what’s
wanted
. Sprinkle
under
pressure
if
you
want
to
iron
fast
.”
He
procured
a
packing-case
from
the
woodpile
in
the
cellar
, fitted
a
cover
to
it
, and
raided
the
scrap-iron
the
Silva
tribe
was
collecting
for
the
junkman
. With
fresh-sprinkled
garments
in
the
box
, covered
with
the
board
and
pressed
by
the
iron
, the
device
was
complete
and
in
operation
.
“Now
you
watch
me
, Maria
,”
he
said
, stripping
off
to
his
undershirt
and
gripping
an
iron
that
was
what
he
called
“really
hot
.”
“An’
when
he
feenish
da
iron’
he
washa
da
wools
,”
as
she
described
it
afterward
. “He
say
, ‘Maria
, you
are
da
greata
fool
. I
showa
you
how
to
washa
da
wools
,’
an’
he
shows
me
, too
. Ten
minutes
he
maka
da
machine—one
barrel
, one
wheel-hub
, two
poles
, justa
like
dat
.”
Martin
had
learned
the
contrivance
from
Joe
at
the
Shelly
Hot
Springs
.
The
old
wheel-hub
, fixed
on
the
end
of
the
upright
pole
, constituted
the
plunger
. Making
this
, in
turn
, fast
to
the
spring-pole
attached
to
the
kitchen
rafters
, so
that
the
hub
played
upon
the
woollens
in
the
barrel
, he
was
able
, with
one
hand
, thoroughly
to
pound
them
.
“No
more
Maria
washa
da
wools
,”
her
story
always
ended
. “I
maka
da
kids
worka
da
pole
an’
da
hub
an’
da
barrel
. Him
da
smarta
man
, Mister
Eden
.”
Nevertheless
, by
his
masterly
operation
and
improvement
of
her
kitchen-laundry
he
fell
an
immense
distance
in
her
regard
. The
glamour
of
romance
with
which
her
imagination
had
invested
him
faded
away
in
the
cold
light
of
fact
that
he
was
an
ex-laundryman
. All
his
books
, and
his
grand
friends
who
visited
him
in
carriages
or
with
countless
bottles
of
whiskey
, went
for
naught
. He
was
, after
all
, a
mere
workingman
, a
member
of
her
own
class
and
caste
. He
was
more
human
and
approachable
, but
, he
was
no
longer
mystery
.
Martin’s
alienation
from
his
family
continued
. Following
upon
Mr
.
Higginbotham’s
unprovoked
attack
, Mr
. Hermann
von
Schmidt
showed
his
hand
. The
fortunate
sale
of
several
storiettes
, some
humorous
verse
,
and
a
few
jokes
gave
Martin
a
temporary
splurge
of
prosperity
. Not
only
did
he
partially
pay
up
his
bills
, but
he
had
sufficient
balance
left
to
redeem
his
black
suit
and
wheel
. The
latter
, by
virtue
of
a
twisted
crank-hanger
, required
repairing
, and
, as
a
matter
of
friendliness
with
his
future
brother-in-law
, he
sent
it
to
Von
Schmidt’s
shop
.
The
afternoon
of
the
same
day
Martin
was
pleased
by
the
wheel
being
delivered
by
a
small
boy
. Von
Schmidt
was
also
inclined
to
be
friendly
,
was
Martin’s
conclusion
from
this
unusual
favor
. Repaired
wheels
usually
had
to
be
called
for
. But
when
he
examined
the
wheel
, he
discovered
no
repairs
had
been
made
. A
little
later
in
the
day
he
telephoned
his
sister’s
betrothed
, and
learned
that
that
person
didn’t
want
anything
to
do
with
him
in
“any
shape
, manner
, or
form
.”
“Hermann
von
Schmidt
,”
Martin
answered
cheerfully
, “I’ve
a
good
mind
to
come
over
and
punch
that
Dutch
nose
of
yours
.”
“You
come
to
my
shop
,”
came
the
reply
, “an’
I’ll
send
for
the
police
.
An’
I’ll
put
you
through
, too
. Oh
, I
know
you
, but
you
can’t
make
no
rough-house
with
me
. I
don’t
want
nothin’
to
do
with
the
likes
of
you
.
You’re
a
loafer
, that’s
what
, an’
I
ain’t
asleep
. You
ain’t
goin’
to
do
no
spongin’
off
me
just
because
I’m
marryin’
your
sister
. Why
don’t
you
go
to
work
an’
earn
an
honest
livin’
, eh
? Answer
me
that
.”
Martin’s
philosophy
asserted
itself
, dissipating
his
anger
, and
he
hung
up
the
receiver
with
a
long
whistle
of
incredulous
amusement
. But
after
the
amusement
came
the
reaction
, and
he
was
oppressed
by
his
loneliness
. Nobody
understood
him
, nobody
seemed
to
have
any
use
for
him
, except
Brissenden
, and
Brissenden
had
disappeared
, God
alone
knew
where
.
Twilight
was
falling
as
Martin
left
the
fruit
store
and
turned
homeward
, his
marketing
on
his
arm
. At
the
corner
an
electric
car
had
stopped
, and
at
sight
of
a
lean
, familiar
figure
alighting
, his
heart
leapt
with
joy
. It
was
Brissenden
, and
in
the
fleeting
glimpse
, ere
the
car
started
up
, Martin
noted
the
overcoat
pockets
, one
bulging
with
books
, the
other
bulging
with
a
quart
bottle
of
whiskey
.
CHAPTER
XXXV
.
Brissenden
gave
no
explanation
of
his
long
absence
, nor
did
Martin
pry
into
it
. He
was
content
to
see
his
friend’s
cadaverous
face
opposite
him
through
the
steam
rising
from
a
tumbler
of
toddy
.
“I
, too
, have
not
been
idle
,”
Brissenden
proclaimed
, after
hearing
Martin’s
account
of
the
work
he
had
accomplished
.
He
pulled
a
manuscript
from
his
inside
coat
pocket
and
passed
it
to
Martin
, who
looked
at
the
title
and
glanced
up
curiously
.
“Yes
, that’s
it
,”
Brissenden
laughed
. “Pretty
good
title
, eh
?
‘Ephemera’—it
is
the
one
word
. And
you’re
responsible
for
it
, what
of
your
_man_
, who
is
always
the
erected
, the
vitalized
inorganic
, the
latest
of
the
ephemera
, the
creature
of
temperature
strutting
his
little
space
on
the
thermometer
. It
got
into
my
head
and
I
had
to
write
it
to
get
rid
of
it
. Tell
me
what
you
think
of
it
.”
Martin’s
face
, flushed
at
first
, paled
as
he
read
on
. It
was
perfect
art
. Form
triumphed
over
substance
, if
triumph
it
could
be
called
where
the
last
conceivable
atom
of
substance
had
found
expression
in
so
perfect
construction
as
to
make
Martin’s
head
swim
with
delight
, to
put
passionate
tears
into
his
eyes
, and
to
send
chills
creeping
up
and
down
his
back
. It
was
a
long
poem
of
six
or
seven
hundred
lines
, and
it
was
a
fantastic
, amazing
, unearthly
thing
. It
was
terrific
, impossible
; and
yet
there
it
was
, scrawled
in
black
ink
across
the
sheets
of
paper
. It
dealt
with
man
and
his
soul-gropings
in
their
ultimate
terms
, plumbing
the
abysses
of
space
for
the
testimony
of
remotest
suns
and
rainbow
spectrums
. It
was
a
mad
orgy
of
imagination
, wassailing
in
the
skull
of
a
dying
man
who
half
sobbed
under
his
breath
and
was
quick
with
the
wild
flutter
of
fading
heart-beats
. The
poem
swung
in
majestic
rhythm
to
the
cool
tumult
of
interstellar
conflict
, to
the
onset
of
starry
hosts
, to
the
impact
of
cold
suns
and
the
flaming
up
of
nebulae
in
the
darkened
void
; and
through
it
all
, unceasing
and
faint
, like
a
silver
shuttle
, ran
the
frail
, piping
voice
of
man
, a
querulous
chirp
amid
the
screaming
of
planets
and
the
crash
of
systems
.
“There
is
nothing
like
it
in
literature
,”
Martin
said
, when
at
last
he
was
able
to
speak
. “It’s
wonderful
!—wonderful
! It
has
gone
to
my
head
.
I
am
drunken
with
it
. That
great
, infinitesimal
question—I
can’t
shake
it
out
of
my
thoughts
. That
questing
, eternal
, ever
recurring
, thin
little
wailing
voice
of
man
is
still
ringing
in
my
ears
. It
is
like
the
dead-march
of
a
gnat
amid
the
trumpeting
of
elephants
and
the
roaring
of
lions
. It
is
insatiable
with
microscopic
desire
. I
now
I’m
making
a
fool
of
myself
, but
the
thing
has
obsessed
me
. You
are—I
don’t
know
what
you
are—you
are
wonderful
, that’s
all
. But
how
do
you
do
it
? How
do
you
do
it
?”
Martin
paused
from
his
rhapsody
, only
to
break
out
afresh
.
“I
shall
never
write
again
. I
am
a
dauber
in
clay
. You
have
shown
me
the
work
of
the
real
artificer-artisan
. Genius
! This
is
something
more
than
genius
. It
transcends
genius
. It
is
truth
gone
mad
. It
is
true
,
man
, every
line
of
it
. I
wonder
if
you
realize
that
, you
dogmatist
.
Science
cannot
give
you
the
lie
. It
is
the
truth
of
the
sneer
, stamped
out
from
the
black
iron
of
the
Cosmos
and
interwoven
with
mighty
rhythms
of
sound
into
a
fabric
of
splendor
and
beauty
. And
now
I
won’t
say
another
word
. I
am
overwhelmed
, crushed
. Yes
, I
will
, too
. Let
me
market
it
for
you
.”
Brissenden
grinned
. “There’s
not
a
magazine
in
Christendom
that
would
dare
to
publish
it—you
know
that
.”
“I
know
nothing
of
the
sort
. I
know
there’s
not
a
magazine
in
Christendom
that
wouldn’t
jump
at
it
. They
don’t
get
things
like
that
every
day
. That’s
no
mere
poem
of
the
year
. It’s
the
poem
of
the
century
.”
“I’d
like
to
take
you
up
on
the
proposition
.”
“Now
don’t
get
cynical
,”
Martin
exhorted
. “The
magazine
editors
are
not
wholly
fatuous
. I
know
that
. And
I’ll
close
with
you
on
the
bet
. I’ll
wager
anything
you
want
that
‘Ephemera’
is
accepted
either
on
the
first
or
second
offering
.”
“There’s
just
one
thing
that
prevents
me
from
taking
you
.”
Brissenden
waited
a
moment
. “The
thing
is
big—the
biggest
I’ve
ever
done
. I
know
that
. It’s
my
swan
song
. I
am
almighty
proud
of
it
. I
worship
it
. It’s
better
than
whiskey
. It
is
what
I
dreamed
of—the
great
and
perfect
thing—when
I
was
a
simple
young
man
, with
sweet
illusions
and
clean
ideals
. And
I’ve
got
it
, now
, in
my
last
grasp
, and
I’ll
not
have
it
pawed
over
and
soiled
by
a
lot
of
swine
. No
, I
won’t
take
the
bet
. It’s
mine
. I
made
it
, and
I’ve
shared
it
with
you
.”
“But
think
of
the
rest
of
the
world
,”
Martin
protested
. “The
function
of
beauty
is
joy-making
.”
“It’s
my
beauty
.”
“Don’t
be
selfish
.”
“I’m
not
selfish
.”
Brissenden
grinned
soberly
in
the
way
he
had
when
pleased
by
the
thing
his
thin
lips
were
about
to
shape
. “I’m
as
unselfish
as
a
famished
hog
.”
In
vain
Martin
strove
to
shake
him
from
his
decision
. Martin
told
him
that
his
hatred
of
the
magazines
was
rabid
, fanatical
, and
that
his
conduct
was
a
thousand
times
more
despicable
than
that
of
the
youth
who
burned
the
temple
of
Diana
at
Ephesus
. Under
the
storm
of
denunciation
Brissenden
complacently
sipped
his
toddy
and
affirmed
that
everything
the
other
said
was
quite
true
, with
the
exception
of
the
magazine
editors
. His
hatred
of
them
knew
no
bounds
, and
he
excelled
Martin
in
denunciation
when
he
turned
upon
them
.
“I
wish
you’d
type
it
for
me
,”
he
said
. “You
know
how
a
thousand
times
better
than
any
stenographer
. And
now
I
want
to
give
you
some
advice
.”
He
drew
a
bulky
manuscript
from
his
outside
coat
pocket
. “Here’s
your
‘Shame
of
the
Sun
.’
I’ve
read
it
not
once
, but
twice
and
three
times—the
highest
compliment
I
can
pay
you
. After
what
you’ve
said
about
‘Ephemera’
I
must
be
silent
. But
this
I
will
say
: when
‘The
Shame
of
the
Sun’
is
published
, it
will
make
a
hit
. It
will
start
a
controversy
that
will
be
worth
thousands
to
you
just
in
advertising
.”
Martin
laughed
. “I
suppose
your
next
advice
will
be
to
submit
it
to
the
magazines
.”
“By
all
means
no—that
is
, if
you
want
to
see
it
in
print
. Offer
it
to
the
first-class
houses
. Some
publisher’s
reader
may
be
mad
enough
or
drunk
enough
to
report
favorably
on
it
. You’ve
read
the
books
. The
meat
of
them
has
been
transmuted
in
the
alembic
of
Martin
Eden’s
mind
and
poured
into
‘The
Shame
of
the
Sun
,’
and
one
day
Martin
Eden
will
be
famous
, and
not
the
least
of
his
fame
will
rest
upon
that
work
. So
you
must
get
a
publisher
for
it—the
sooner
the
better
.”
Brissenden
went
home
late
that
night
; and
just
as
he
mounted
the
first
step
of
the
car
, he
swung
suddenly
back
on
Martin
and
thrust
into
his
hand
a
small
, tightly
crumpled
wad
of
paper
.
“Here
, take
this
,”
he
said
. “I
was
out
to
the
races
to-day
, and
I
had
the
right
dope
.”
The
bell
clanged
and
the
car
pulled
out
, leaving
Martin
wondering
as
to
the
nature
of
the
crinkly
, greasy
wad
he
clutched
in
his
hand
. Back
in
his
room
he
unrolled
it
and
found
a
hundred-dollar
bill
.
He
did
not
scruple
to
use
it
. He
knew
his
friend
had
always
plenty
of
money
, and
he
knew
also
, with
profound
certitude
, that
his
success
would
enable
him
to
repay
it
. In
the
morning
he
paid
every
bill
, gave
Maria
three
months’
advance
on
the
room
, and
redeemed
every
pledge
at
the
pawnshop
. Next
he
bought
Marian’s
wedding
present
, and
simpler
presents
, suitable
to
Christmas
, for
Ruth
and
Gertrude
. And
finally
, on
the
balance
remaining
to
him
, he
herded
the
whole
Silva
tribe
down
into
Oakland
. He
was
a
winter
late
in
redeeming
his
promise
, but
redeemed
it
was
, for
the
last
, least
Silva
got
a
pair
of
shoes
, as
well
as
Maria
herself
. Also
, there
were
horns
, and
dolls
, and
toys
of
various
sorts
,
and
parcels
and
bundles
of
candies
and
nuts
that
filled
the
arms
of
all
the
Silvas
to
overflowing
.
It
was
with
this
extraordinary
procession
trooping
at
his
and
Maria’s
heels
into
a
confectioner’s
in
quest
of
the
biggest
candy-cane
ever
made
, that
he
encountered
Ruth
and
her
mother
. Mrs
. Morse
was
shocked
.
Even
Ruth
was
hurt
, for
she
had
some
regard
for
appearances
, and
her
lover
, cheek
by
jowl
with
Maria
, at
the
head
of
that
army
of
Portuguese
ragamuffins
, was
not
a
pretty
sight
. But
it
was
not
that
which
hurt
so
much
as
what
she
took
to
be
his
lack
of
pride
and
self-respect
.
Further
, and
keenest
of
all
, she
read
into
the
incident
the
impossibility
of
his
living
down
his
working-class
origin
. There
was
stigma
enough
in
the
fact
of
it
, but
shamelessly
to
flaunt
it
in
the
face
of
the
world—her
world—was
going
too
far
. Though
her
engagement
to
Martin
had
been
kept
secret
, their
long
intimacy
had
not
been
unproductive
of
gossip
; and
in
the
shop
, glancing
covertly
at
her
lover
and
his
following
, had
been
several
of
her
acquaintances
. She
lacked
the
easy
largeness
of
Martin
and
could
not
rise
superior
to
her
environment
. She
had
been
hurt
to
the
quick
, and
her
sensitive
nature
was
quivering
with
the
shame
of
it
. So
it
was
, when
Martin
arrived
later
in
the
day
, that
he
kept
her
present
in
his
breast-pocket
,
deferring
the
giving
of
it
to
a
more
propitious
occasion
. Ruth
in
tears—passionate
, angry
tears—was
a
revelation
to
him
. The
spectacle
of
her
suffering
convinced
him
that
he
had
been
a
brute
, yet
in
the
soul
of
him
he
could
not
see
how
nor
why
. It
never
entered
his
head
to
be
ashamed
of
those
he
knew
, and
to
take
the
Silvas
out
to
a
Christmas
treat
could
in
no
way
, so
it
seemed
to
him
, show
lack
of
consideration
for
Ruth
. On
the
other
hand
, he
did
see
Ruth’s
point
of
view
, after
she
had
explained
it
; and
he
looked
upon
it
as
a
feminine
weakness
, such
as
afflicted
all
women
and
the
best
of
women
.
CHAPTER
XXXVI
.
“Come
on
,—I’ll
show
you
the
real
dirt
,”
Brissenden
said
to
him
, one
evening
in
January
.
They
had
dined
together
in
San
Francisco
, and
were
at
the
Ferry
Building
, returning
to
Oakland
, when
the
whim
came
to
him
to
show
Martin
the
“real
dirt
.”
He
turned
and
fled
across
the
water-front
, a
meagre
shadow
in
a
flapping
overcoat
, with
Martin
straining
to
keep
up
with
him
. At
a
wholesale
liquor
store
he
bought
two
gallon-demijohns
of
old
port
, and
with
one
in
each
hand
boarded
a
Mission
Street
car
,
Martin
at
his
heels
burdened
with
several
quart-bottles
of
whiskey
.
If
Ruth
could
see
me
now
, was
his
thought
, while
he
wondered
as
to
what
constituted
the
real
dirt
.
“Maybe
nobody
will
be
there
,”
Brissenden
said
, when
they
dismounted
and
plunged
off
to
the
right
into
the
heart
of
the
working-class
ghetto
,
south
of
Market
Street
. “In
which
case
you’ll
miss
what
you’ve
been
looking
for
so
long
.”
“And
what
the
deuce
is
that
?”
Martin
asked
.
“Men
, intelligent
men
, and
not
the
gibbering
nonentities
I
found
you
consorting
with
in
that
trader’s
den
. You
read
the
books
and
you
found
yourself
all
alone
. Well
, I’m
going
to
show
you
to-night
some
other
men
who’ve
read
the
books
, so
that
you
won’t
be
lonely
any
more
.”
“Not
that
I
bother
my
head
about
their
everlasting
discussions
,”
he
said
at
the
end
of
a
block
. “I’m
not
interested
in
book
philosophy
. But
you’ll
find
these
fellows
intelligences
and
not
bourgeois
swine
. But
watch
out
, they’ll
talk
an
arm
off
of
you
on
any
subject
under
the
sun
.”
“Hope
Norton’s
there
,”
he
panted
a
little
later
, resisting
Martin’s
effort
to
relieve
him
of
the
two
demijohns
. “Norton’s
an
idealist—a
Harvard
man
. Prodigious
memory
. Idealism
led
him
to
philosophic
anarchy
, and
his
family
threw
him
off
. Father’s
a
railroad
president
and
many
times
millionnaire
, but
the
son’s
starving
in
’Frisco
, editing
an
anarchist
sheet
for
twenty-five
a
month
.”
Martin
was
little
acquainted
in
San
Francisco
, and
not
at
all
south
of
Market
; so
he
had
no
idea
of
where
he
was
being
led
.
“Go
ahead
,”
he
said
; “tell
me
about
them
beforehand
. What
do
they
do
for
a
living
? How
do
they
happen
to
be
here
?”
“Hope
Hamilton’s
there
.”
Brissenden
paused
and
rested
his
hands
.
“Strawn-Hamilton’s
his
name—hyphenated
, you
know—comes
of
old
Southern
stock
. He’s
a
tramp—laziest
man
I
ever
knew
, though
he’s
clerking
, or
trying
to
, in
a
socialist
coöperative
store
for
six
dollars
a
week
. But
he’s
a
confirmed
hobo
. Tramped
into
town
. I’ve
seen
him
sit
all
day
on
a
bench
and
never
a
bite
pass
his
lips
, and
in
the
evening
, when
I
invited
him
to
dinner—restaurant
two
blocks
away—have
him
say
, ‘Too
much
trouble
, old
man
. Buy
me
a
package
of
cigarettes
instead
.’
He
was
a
Spencerian
like
you
till
Kreis
turned
him
to
materialistic
monism
.
I’ll
start
him
on
monism
if
I
can
. Norton’s
another
monist—only
he
affirms
naught
but
spirit
. He
can
give
Kreis
and
Hamilton
all
they
want
, too
.”
“Who
is
Kreis
?”
Martin
asked
.
“His
rooms
we’re
going
to
. One
time
professor—fired
from
university—usual
story
. A
mind
like
a
steel
trap
. Makes
his
living
any
old
way
. I
know
he’s
been
a
street
fakir
when
he
was
down
.
Unscrupulous
. Rob
a
corpse
of
a
shroud—anything
. Difference
between
him
and
the
bourgeoisie
is
that
he
robs
without
illusion
. He’ll
talk
Nietzsche
, or
Schopenhauer
, or
Kant
, or
anything
, but
the
only
thing
in
this
world
, not
excepting
Mary
, that
he
really
cares
for
, is
his
monism
. Haeckel
is
his
little
tin
god
. The
only
way
to
insult
him
is
to
take
a
slap
at
Haeckel
.”
“Here’s
the
hang-out
.”
Brissenden
rested
his
demijohn
at
the
upstairs
entrance
, preliminary
to
the
climb
. It
was
the
usual
two-story
corner
building
, with
a
saloon
and
grocery
underneath
. “The
gang
lives
here—got
the
whole
upstairs
to
themselves
. But
Kreis
is
the
only
one
who
has
two
rooms
. Come
on
.”
No
lights
burned
in
the
upper
hall
, but
Brissenden
threaded
the
utter
blackness
like
a
familiar
ghost
. He
stopped
to
speak
to
Martin
.
“There’s
one
fellow—Stevens—a
theosophist
. Makes
a
pretty
tangle
when
he
gets
going
. Just
now
he’s
dish-washer
in
a
restaurant
. Likes
a
good
cigar
. I’ve
seen
him
eat
in
a
ten-cent
hash-house
and
pay
fifty
cents
for
the
cigar
he
smoked
afterward
. I’ve
got
a
couple
in
my
pocket
for
him
, if
he
shows
up
.”
“And
there’s
another
fellow—Parry—an
Australian
, a
statistician
and
a
sporting
encyclopaedia
. Ask
him
the
grain
output
of
Paraguay
for
1903
,
or
the
English
importation
of
sheetings
into
China
for
1890
, or
at
what
weight
Jimmy
Britt
fought
Battling
Nelson
, or
who
was
welter-weight
champion
of
the
United
States
in
’68
, and
you’ll
get
the
correct
answer
with
the
automatic
celerity
of
a
slot-machine
. And
there’s
Andy
, a
stone-mason
, has
ideas
on
everything
, a
good
chess-player
; and
another
fellow
, Harry
, a
baker
, red
hot
socialist
and
strong
union
man
. By
the
way
, you
remember
Cooks’
and
Waiters’
strike—Hamilton
was
the
chap
who
organized
that
union
and
precipitated
the
strike—planned
it
all
out
in
advance
, right
here
in
Kreis’s
rooms
. Did
it
just
for
the
fun
of
it
,
but
was
too
lazy
to
stay
by
the
union
. Yet
he
could
have
risen
high
if
he
wanted
to
. There’s
no
end
to
the
possibilities
in
that
man—if
he
weren’t
so
insuperably
lazy
.”
Brissenden
advanced
through
the
darkness
till
a
thread
of
light
marked
the
threshold
of
a
door
. A
knock
and
an
answer
opened
it
, and
Martin
found
himself
shaking
hands
with
Kreis
, a
handsome
brunette
man
, with
dazzling
white
teeth
, a
drooping
black
mustache
, and
large
, flashing
black
eyes
. Mary
, a
matronly
young
blonde
, was
washing
dishes
in
the
little
back
room
that
served
for
kitchen
and
dining
room
. The
front
room
served
as
bedchamber
and
living
room
. Overhead
was
the
week’s
washing
, hanging
in
festoons
so
low
that
Martin
did
not
see
at
first
the
two
men
talking
in
a
corner
. They
hailed
Brissenden
and
his
demijohns
with
acclamation
, and
, on
being
introduced
, Martin
learned
they
were
Andy
and
Parry
. He
joined
them
and
listened
attentively
to
the
description
of
a
prize-fight
Parry
had
seen
the
night
before
; while
Brissenden
, in
his
glory
, plunged
into
the
manufacture
of
a
toddy
and
the
serving
of
wine
and
whiskey-and-sodas
. At
his
command
, “Bring
in
the
clan
,”
Andy
departed
to
go
the
round
of
the
rooms
for
the
lodgers
.
“We’re
lucky
that
most
of
them
are
here
,”
Brissenden
whispered
to
Martin
. “There’s
Norton
and
Hamilton
; come
on
and
meet
them
. Stevens
isn’t
around
, I
hear
. I’m
going
to
get
them
started
on
monism
if
I
can
.
Wait
till
they
get
a
few
jolts
in
them
and
they’ll
warm
up
.”
At
first
the
conversation
was
desultory
. Nevertheless
Martin
could
not
fail
to
appreciate
the
keen
play
of
their
minds
. They
were
men
with
opinions
, though
the
opinions
often
clashed
, and
, though
they
were
witty
and
clever
, they
were
not
superficial
. He
swiftly
saw
, no
matter
upon
what
they
talked
, that
each
man
applied
the
correlation
of
knowledge
and
had
also
a
deep-seated
and
unified
conception
of
society
and
the
Cosmos
. Nobody
manufactured
their
opinions
for
them
; they
were
all
rebels
of
one
variety
or
another
, and
their
lips
were
strangers
to
platitudes
. Never
had
Martin
, at
the
Morses’
, heard
so
amazing
a
range
of
topics
discussed
. There
seemed
no
limit
save
time
to
the
things
they
were
alive
to
. The
talk
wandered
from
Mrs
. Humphry
Ward’s
new
book
to
Shaw’s
latest
play
, through
the
future
of
the
drama
to
reminiscences
of
Mansfield
. They
appreciated
or
sneered
at
the
morning
editorials
,
jumped
from
labor
conditions
in
New
Zealand
to
Henry
James
and
Brander
Matthews
, passed
on
to
the
German
designs
in
the
Far
East
and
the
economic
aspect
of
the
Yellow
Peril
, wrangled
over
the
German
elections
and
Bebel’s
last
speech
, and
settled
down
to
local
politics
, the
latest
plans
and
scandals
in
the
union
labor
party
administration
, and
the
wires
that
were
pulled
to
bring
about
the
Coast
Seamen’s
strike
. Martin
was
struck
by
the
inside
knowledge
they
possessed
. They
knew
what
was
never
printed
in
the
newspapers—the
wires
and
strings
and
the
hidden
hands
that
made
the
puppets
dance
. To
Martin’s
surprise
, the
girl
,
Mary
, joined
in
the
conversation
, displaying
an
intelligence
he
had
never
encountered
in
the
few
women
he
had
met
. They
talked
together
on
Swinburne
and
Rossetti
, after
which
she
led
him
beyond
his
depth
into
the
by-paths
of
French
literature
. His
revenge
came
when
she
defended
Maeterlinck
and
he
brought
into
action
the
carefully-thought-out
thesis
of
“The
Shame
of
the
Sun
.”
Several
other
men
had
dropped
in
, and
the
air
was
thick
with
tobacco
smoke
, when
Brissenden
waved
the
red
flag
.
“Here’s
fresh
meat
for
your
axe
, Kreis
,”
he
said
; “a
rose-white
youth
with
the
ardor
of
a
lover
for
Herbert
Spencer
. Make
a
Haeckelite
of
him—if
you
can
.”
Kreis
seemed
to
wake
up
and
flash
like
some
metallic
, magnetic
thing
,
while
Norton
looked
at
Martin
sympathetically
, with
a
sweet
, girlish
smile
, as
much
as
to
say
that
he
would
be
amply
protected
.
Kreis
began
directly
on
Martin
, but
step
by
step
Norton
interfered
,
until
he
and
Kreis
were
off
and
away
in
a
personal
battle
. Martin
listened
and
fain
would
have
rubbed
his
eyes
. It
was
impossible
that
this
should
be
, much
less
in
the
labor
ghetto
south
of
Market
. The
books
were
alive
in
these
men
. They
talked
with
fire
and
enthusiasm
,
the
intellectual
stimulant
stirring
them
as
he
had
seen
drink
and
anger
stir
other
men
. What
he
heard
was
no
longer
the
philosophy
of
the
dry
,
printed
word
, written
by
half-mythical
demigods
like
Kant
and
Spencer
.
It
was
living
philosophy
, with
warm
, red
blood
, incarnated
in
these
two
men
till
its
very
features
worked
with
excitement
. Now
and
again
other
men
joined
in
, and
all
followed
the
discussion
with
cigarettes
going
out
in
their
hands
and
with
alert
, intent
faces
.
Idealism
had
never
attracted
Martin
, but
the
exposition
it
now
received
at
the
hands
of
Norton
was
a
revelation
. The
logical
plausibility
of
it
, that
made
an
appeal
to
his
intellect
, seemed
missed
by
Kreis
and
Hamilton
, who
sneered
at
Norton
as
a
metaphysician
, and
who
, in
turn
,
sneered
back
at
them
as
metaphysicians
. _Phenomenon_
and
_noumenon_
were
bandied
back
and
forth
. They
charged
him
with
attempting
to
explain
consciousness
by
itself
. He
charged
them
with
word-jugglery
,
with
reasoning
from
words
to
theory
instead
of
from
facts
to
theory
. At
this
they
were
aghast
. It
was
the
cardinal
tenet
of
their
mode
of
reasoning
to
start
with
facts
and
to
give
names
to
the
facts
.
When
Norton
wandered
into
the
intricacies
of
Kant
, Kreis
reminded
him
that
all
good
little
German
philosophies
when
they
died
went
to
Oxford
.
A
little
later
Norton
reminded
them
of
Hamilton’s
Law
of
Parsimony
, the
application
of
which
they
immediately
claimed
for
every
reasoning
process
of
theirs
. And
Martin
hugged
his
knees
and
exulted
in
it
all
.
But
Norton
was
no
Spencerian
, and
he
, too
, strove
for
Martin’s
philosophic
soul
, talking
as
much
at
him
as
to
his
two
opponents
.
“You
know
Berkeley
has
never
been
answered
,”
he
said
, looking
directly
at
Martin
. “Herbert
Spencer
came
the
nearest
, which
was
not
very
near
.
Even
the
stanchest
of
Spencer’s
followers
will
not
go
farther
. I
was
reading
an
essay
of
Saleeby’s
the
other
day
, and
the
best
Saleeby
could
say
was
that
Herbert
Spencer
_nearly_
succeeded
in
answering
Berkeley
.”
“You
know
what
Hume
said
?”
Hamilton
asked
. Norton
nodded
, but
Hamilton
gave
it
for
the
benefit
of
the
rest
. “He
said
that
Berkeley’s
arguments
admit
of
no
answer
and
produce
no
conviction
.”
“In
his
, Hume’s
, mind
,”
was
the
reply
. “And
Hume’s
mind
was
the
same
as
yours
, with
this
difference
: he
was
wise
enough
to
admit
there
was
no
answering
Berkeley
.”
Norton
was
sensitive
and
excitable
, though
he
never
lost
his
head
,
while
Kreis
and
Hamilton
were
like
a
pair
of
cold-blooded
savages
,
seeking
out
tender
places
to
prod
and
poke
. As
the
evening
grew
late
,
Norton
, smarting
under
the
repeated
charges
of
being
a
metaphysician
,
clutching
his
chair
to
keep
from
jumping
to
his
feet
, his
gray
eyes
snapping
and
his
girlish
face
grown
harsh
and
sure
, made
a
grand
attack
upon
their
position
.
“All
right
, you
Haeckelites
, I
may
reason
like
a
medicine
man
, but
,
pray
, how
do
you
reason
? You
have
nothing
to
stand
on
, you
unscientific
dogmatists
with
your
positive
science
which
you
are
always
lugging
about
into
places
it
has
no
right
to
be
. Long
before
the
school
of
materialistic
monism
arose
, the
ground
was
removed
so
that
there
could
be
no
foundation
. Locke
was
the
man
, John
Locke
. Two
hundred
years
ago—more
than
that
, even
in
his
‘Essay
concerning
the
Human
Understanding
,’
he
proved
the
non-existence
of
innate
ideas
. The
best
of
it
is
that
that
is
precisely
what
you
claim
. To-night
, again
and
again
, you
have
asserted
the
non-existence
of
innate
ideas
.
“And
what
does
that
mean
? It
means
that
you
can
never
know
ultimate
reality
. Your
brains
are
empty
when
you
are
born
. Appearances
, or
phenomena
, are
all
the
content
your
minds
can
receive
from
your
five
senses
. Then
noumena
, which
are
not
in
your
minds
when
you
are
born
,
have
no
way
of
getting
in—”
“I
deny—”
Kreis
started
to
interrupt
.
“You
wait
till
I’m
done
,”
Norton
shouted
. “You
can
know
only
that
much
of
the
play
and
interplay
of
force
and
matter
as
impinges
in
one
way
or
another
on
our
senses
. You
see
, I
am
willing
to
admit
, for
the
sake
of
the
argument
, that
matter
exists
; and
what
I
am
about
to
do
is
to
efface
you
by
your
own
argument
. I
can’t
do
it
any
other
way
, for
you
are
both
congenitally
unable
to
understand
a
philosophic
abstraction
.
“And
now
, what
do
you
know
of
matter
, according
to
your
own
positive
science
? You
know
it
only
by
its
phenomena
, its
appearances
. You
are
aware
only
of
its
changes
, or
of
such
changes
in
it
as
cause
changes
in
your
consciousness
. Positive
science
deals
only
with
phenomena
, yet
you
are
foolish
enough
to
strive
to
be
ontologists
and
to
deal
with
noumena
. Yet
, by
the
very
definition
of
positive
science
, science
is
concerned
only
with
appearances
. As
somebody
has
said
, phenomenal
knowledge
cannot
transcend
phenomena
.
“You
cannot
answer
Berkeley
, even
if
you
have
annihilated
Kant
, and
yet
, perforce
, you
assume
that
Berkeley
is
wrong
when
you
affirm
that
science
proves
the
non-existence
of
God
, or
, as
much
to
the
point
, the
existence
of
matter
.—You
know
I
granted
the
reality
of
matter
only
in
order
to
make
myself
intelligible
to
your
understanding
. Be
positive
scientists
, if
you
please
; but
ontology
has
no
place
in
positive
science
, so
leave
it
alone
. Spencer
is
right
in
his
agnosticism
, but
if
Spencer—”
But
it
was
time
to
catch
the
last
ferry-boat
for
Oakland
, and
Brissenden
and
Martin
slipped
out
, leaving
Norton
still
talking
and
Kreis
and
Hamilton
waiting
to
pounce
on
him
like
a
pair
of
hounds
as
soon
as
he
finished
.
“You
have
given
me
a
glimpse
of
fairyland
,”
Martin
said
on
the
ferry-boat
. “It
makes
life
worth
while
to
meet
people
like
that
. My
mind
is
all
worked
up
. I
never
appreciated
idealism
before
. Yet
I
can’t
accept
it
. I
know
that
I
shall
always
be
a
realist
. I
am
so
made
, I
guess
. But
I’d
like
to
have
made
a
reply
to
Kreis
and
Hamilton
, and
I
think
I’d
have
had
a
word
or
two
for
Norton
. I
didn’t
see
that
Spencer
was
damaged
any
. I’m
as
excited
as
a
child
on
its
first
visit
to
the
circus
. I
see
I
must
read
up
some
more
. I’m
going
to
get
hold
of
Saleeby
. I
still
think
Spencer
is
unassailable
, and
next
time
I’m
going
to
take
a
hand
myself
.”
But
Brissenden
, breathing
painfully
, had
dropped
off
to
sleep
, his
chin
buried
in
a
scarf
and
resting
on
his
sunken
chest
, his
body
wrapped
in
the
long
overcoat
and
shaking
to
the
vibration
of
the
propellers
.
CHAPTER
XXXVII
.
The
first
thing
Martin
did
next
morning
was
to
go
counter
both
to
Brissenden’s
advice
and
command
. “The
Shame
of
the
Sun”
he
wrapped
and
mailed
to
_The
Acropolis_
. He
believed
he
could
find
magazine
publication
for
it
, and
he
felt
that
recognition
by
the
magazines
would
commend
him
to
the
book-publishing
houses
. “Ephemera”
he
likewise
wrapped
and
mailed
to
a
magazine
. Despite
Brissenden’s
prejudice
against
the
magazines
, which
was
a
pronounced
mania
with
him
, Martin
decided
that
the
great
poem
should
see
print
. He
did
not
intend
,
however
, to
publish
it
without
the
other’s
permission
. His
plan
was
to
get
it
accepted
by
one
of
the
high
magazines
, and
, thus
armed
, again
to
wrestle
with
Brissenden
for
consent
.
Martin
began
, that
morning
, a
story
which
he
had
sketched
out
a
number
of
weeks
before
and
which
ever
since
had
been
worrying
him
with
its
insistent
clamor
to
be
created
. Apparently
it
was
to
be
a
rattling
sea
story
, a
tale
of
twentieth-century
adventure
and
romance
, handling
real
characters
, in
a
real
world
, under
real
conditions
. But
beneath
the
swing
and
go
of
the
story
was
to
be
something
else—something
that
the
superficial
reader
would
never
discern
and
which
, on
the
other
hand
,
would
not
diminish
in
any
way
the
interest
and
enjoyment
for
such
a
reader
. It
was
this
, and
not
the
mere
story
, that
impelled
Martin
to
write
it
. For
that
matter
, it
was
always
the
great
, universal
motif
that
suggested
plots
to
him
. After
having
found
such
a
motif
, he
cast
about
for
the
particular
persons
and
particular
location
in
time
and
space
wherewith
and
wherein
to
utter
the
universal
thing
. “Overdue”
was
the
title
he
had
decided
for
it
, and
its
length
he
believed
would
not
be
more
than
sixty
thousand
words—a
bagatelle
for
him
with
his
splendid
vigor
of
production
. On
this
first
day
he
took
hold
of
it
with
conscious
delight
in
the
mastery
of
his
tools
. He
no
longer
worried
for
fear
that
the
sharp
, cutting
edges
should
slip
and
mar
his
work
. The
long
months
of
intense
application
and
study
had
brought
their
reward
.
He
could
now
devote
himself
with
sure
hand
to
the
larger
phases
of
the
thing
he
shaped
; and
as
he
worked
, hour
after
hour
, he
felt
, as
never
before
, the
sure
and
cosmic
grasp
with
which
he
held
life
and
the
affairs
of
life
. “Overdue”
would
tell
a
story
that
would
be
true
of
its
particular
characters
and
its
particular
events
; but
it
would
tell
,
too
, he
was
confident
, great
vital
things
that
would
be
true
of
all
time
, and
all
sea
, and
all
life—thanks
to
Herbert
Spencer
, he
thought
,
leaning
back
for
a
moment
from
the
table
. Ay
, thanks
to
Herbert
Spencer
and
to
the
master-key
of
life
, evolution
, which
Spencer
had
placed
in
his
hands
.
He
was
conscious
that
it
was
great
stuff
he
was
writing
. “It
will
go
!
It
will
go
!”
was
the
refrain
that
kept
sounding
in
his
ears
. Of
course
it
would
go
. At
last
he
was
turning
out
the
thing
at
which
the
magazines
would
jump
. The
whole
story
worked
out
before
him
in
lightning
flashes
. He
broke
off
from
it
long
enough
to
write
a
paragraph
in
his
note-book
. This
would
be
the
last
paragraph
in
“Overdue”
; but
so
thoroughly
was
the
whole
book
already
composed
in
his
brain
that
he
could
write
, weeks
before
he
had
arrived
at
the
end
, the
end
itself
. He
compared
the
tale
, as
yet
unwritten
, with
the
tales
of
the
sea-writers
, and
he
felt
it
to
be
immeasurably
superior
. “There’s
only
one
man
who
could
touch
it
,”
he
murmured
aloud
, “and
that’s
Conrad
. And
it
ought
to
make
even
him
sit
up
and
shake
hands
with
me
,
and
say
, ‘Well
done
, Martin
, my
boy
.’”
He
toiled
on
all
day
, recollecting
, at
the
last
moment
, that
he
was
to
have
dinner
at
the
Morses’
. Thanks
to
Brissenden
, his
black
suit
was
out
of
pawn
and
he
was
again
eligible
for
dinner
parties
. Down
town
he
stopped
off
long
enough
to
run
into
the
library
and
search
for
Saleeby’s
books
. He
drew
out
“The
Cycle
of
Life
,”
and
on
the
car
turned
to
the
essay
Norton
had
mentioned
on
Spencer
. As
Martin
read
, he
grew
angry
. His
face
flushed
, his
jaw
set
, and
unconsciously
his
hand
clenched
, unclenched
, and
clenched
again
as
if
he
were
taking
fresh
grips
upon
some
hateful
thing
out
of
which
he
was
squeezing
the
life
.
When
he
left
the
car
, he
strode
along
the
sidewalk
as
a
wrathful
man
will
stride
, and
he
rang
the
Morse
bell
with
such
viciousness
that
it
roused
him
to
consciousness
of
his
condition
, so
that
he
entered
in
good
nature
, smiling
with
amusement
at
himself
. No
sooner
, however
, was
he
inside
than
a
great
depression
descended
upon
him
. He
fell
from
the
height
where
he
had
been
up-borne
all
day
on
the
wings
of
inspiration
.
“Bourgeois
,”
“trader’s
den”—Brissenden’s
epithets
repeated
themselves
in
his
mind
. But
what
of
that
? he
demanded
angrily
. He
was
marrying
Ruth
, not
her
family
.
It
seemed
to
him
that
he
had
never
seen
Ruth
more
beautiful
, more
spiritual
and
ethereal
and
at
the
same
time
more
healthy
. There
was
color
in
her
cheeks
, and
her
eyes
drew
him
again
and
again—the
eyes
in
which
he
had
first
read
immortality
. He
had
forgotten
immortality
of
late
, and
the
trend
of
his
scientific
reading
had
been
away
from
it
;
but
here
, in
Ruth’s
eyes
, he
read
an
argument
without
words
that
transcended
all
worded
arguments
. He
saw
that
in
her
eyes
before
which
all
discussion
fled
away
, for
he
saw
love
there
. And
in
his
own
eyes
was
love
; and
love
was
unanswerable
. Such
was
his
passionate
doctrine
.
The
half
hour
he
had
with
her
, before
they
went
in
to
dinner
, left
him
supremely
happy
and
supremely
satisfied
with
life
. Nevertheless
, at
table
, the
inevitable
reaction
and
exhaustion
consequent
upon
the
hard
day
seized
hold
of
him
. He
was
aware
that
his
eyes
were
tired
and
that
he
was
irritable
. He
remembered
it
was
at
this
table
, at
which
he
now
sneered
and
was
so
often
bored
, that
he
had
first
eaten
with
civilized
beings
in
what
he
had
imagined
was
an
atmosphere
of
high
culture
and
refinement
. He
caught
a
glimpse
of
that
pathetic
figure
of
him
, so
long
ago
, a
self-conscious
savage
, sprouting
sweat
at
every
pore
in
an
agony
of
apprehension
, puzzled
by
the
bewildering
minutiae
of
eating-implements
, tortured
by
the
ogre
of
a
servant
, striving
at
a
leap
to
live
at
such
dizzy
social
altitude
, and
deciding
in
the
end
to
be
frankly
himself
, pretending
no
knowledge
and
no
polish
he
did
not
possess
.
He
glanced
at
Ruth
for
reassurance
, much
in
the
same
manner
that
a
passenger
, with
sudden
panic
thought
of
possible
shipwreck
, will
strive
to
locate
the
life
preservers
. Well
, that
much
had
come
out
of
it—love
and
Ruth
. All
the
rest
had
failed
to
stand
the
test
of
the
books
. But
Ruth
and
love
had
stood
the
test
; for
them
he
found
a
biological
sanction
. Love
was
the
most
exalted
expression
of
life
. Nature
had
been
busy
designing
him
, as
she
had
been
busy
with
all
normal
men
, for
the
purpose
of
loving
. She
had
spent
ten
thousand
centuries—ay
, a
hundred
thousand
and
a
million
centuries—upon
the
task
, and
he
was
the
best
she
could
do
. She
had
made
love
the
strongest
thing
in
him
, increased
its
power
a
myriad
per
cent
with
her
gift
of
imagination
, and
sent
him
forth
into
the
ephemera
to
thrill
and
melt
and
mate
. His
hand
sought
Ruth’s
hand
beside
him
hidden
by
the
table
, and
a
warm
pressure
was
given
and
received
. She
looked
at
him
a
swift
instant
, and
her
eyes
were
radiant
and
melting
. So
were
his
in
the
thrill
that
pervaded
him
;
nor
did
he
realize
how
much
that
was
radiant
and
melting
in
her
eyes
had
been
aroused
by
what
she
had
seen
in
his
.
Across
the
table
from
him
, cater-cornered
, at
Mr
. Morse’s
right
, sat
Judge
Blount
, a
local
superior
court
judge
. Martin
had
met
him
a
number
of
times
and
had
failed
to
like
him
. He
and
Ruth’s
father
were
discussing
labor
union
politics
, the
local
situation
, and
socialism
,
and
Mr
. Morse
was
endeavoring
to
twit
Martin
on
the
latter
topic
. At
last
Judge
Blount
looked
across
the
table
with
benignant
and
fatherly
pity
. Martin
smiled
to
himself
.
“You’ll
grow
out
of
it
, young
man
,”
he
said
soothingly
. “Time
is
the
best
cure
for
such
youthful
distempers
.”
He
turned
to
Mr
. Morse
. “I
do
not
believe
discussion
is
good
in
such
cases
. It
makes
the
patient
obstinate
.”
“That
is
true
,”
the
other
assented
gravely
. “But
it
is
well
to
warn
the
patient
occasionally
of
his
condition
.”
Martin
laughed
merrily
, but
it
was
with
an
effort
. The
day
had
been
too
long
, the
day’s
effort
too
intense
, and
he
was
deep
in
the
throes
of
the
reaction
.
“Undoubtedly
you
are
both
excellent
doctors
,”
he
said
; “but
if
you
care
a
whit
for
the
opinion
of
the
patient
, let
him
tell
you
that
you
are
poor
diagnosticians
. In
fact
, you
are
both
suffering
from
the
disease
you
think
you
find
in
me
. As
for
me
, I
am
immune
. The
socialist
philosophy
that
riots
half-baked
in
your
veins
has
passed
me
by
.”
“Clever
, clever
,”
murmured
the
judge
. “An
excellent
ruse
in
controversy
, to
reverse
positions
.”
“Out
of
your
mouth
.”
Martin’s
eyes
were
sparkling
, but
he
kept
control
of
himself
. “You
see
, Judge
, I’ve
heard
your
campaign
speeches
. By
some
henidical
process—henidical
, by
the
way
is
a
favorite
word
of
mine
which
nobody
understands—by
some
henidical
process
you
persuade
yourself
that
you
believe
in
the
competitive
system
and
the
survival
of
the
strong
, and
at
the
same
time
you
indorse
with
might
and
main
all
sorts
of
measures
to
shear
the
strength
from
the
strong
.”
“My
young
man—”
“Remember
, I’ve
heard
your
campaign
speeches
,”
Martin
warned
. “It’s
on
record
, your
position
on
interstate
commerce
regulation
, on
regulation
of
the
railway
trust
and
Standard
Oil
, on
the
conservation
of
the
forests
, on
a
thousand
and
one
restrictive
measures
that
are
nothing
else
than
socialistic
.”
“Do
you
mean
to
tell
me
that
you
do
not
believe
in
regulating
these
various
outrageous
exercises
of
power
?”
“That’s
not
the
point
. I
mean
to
tell
you
that
you
are
a
poor
diagnostician
. I
mean
to
tell
you
that
I
am
not
suffering
from
the
microbe
of
socialism
. I
mean
to
tell
you
that
it
is
you
who
are
suffering
from
the
emasculating
ravages
of
that
same
microbe
. As
for
me
, I
am
an
inveterate
opponent
of
socialism
just
as
I
am
an
inveterate
opponent
of
your
own
mongrel
democracy
that
is
nothing
else
than
pseudo-socialism
masquerading
under
a
garb
of
words
that
will
not
stand
the
test
of
the
dictionary
.”
“I
am
a
reactionary—so
complete
a
reactionary
that
my
position
is
incomprehensible
to
you
who
live
in
a
veiled
lie
of
social
organization
and
whose
sight
is
not
keen
enough
to
pierce
the
veil
. You
make
believe
that
you
believe
in
the
survival
of
the
strong
and
the
rule
of
the
strong
. I
believe
. That
is
the
difference
. When
I
was
a
trifle
younger
,—a
few
months
younger
,—I
believed
the
same
thing
. You
see
, the
ideas
of
you
and
yours
had
impressed
me
. But
merchants
and
traders
are
cowardly
rulers
at
best
; they
grunt
and
grub
all
their
days
in
the
trough
of
money-getting
, and
I
have
swung
back
to
aristocracy
, if
you
please
. I
am
the
only
individualist
in
this
room
. I
look
to
the
state
for
nothing
. I
look
only
to
the
strong
man
, the
man
on
horseback
, to
save
the
state
from
its
own
rotten
futility
.”
“Nietzsche
was
right
. I
won’t
take
the
time
to
tell
you
who
Nietzsche
was
, but
he
was
right
. The
world
belongs
to
the
strong—to
the
strong
who
are
noble
as
well
and
who
do
not
wallow
in
the
swine-trough
of
trade
and
exchange
. The
world
belongs
to
the
true
nobleman
, to
the
great
blond
beasts
, to
the
noncompromisers
, to
the
‘yes-sayers
.’
And
they
will
eat
you
up
, you
socialists—who
are
afraid
of
socialism
and
who
think
yourselves
individualists
. Your
slave-morality
of
the
meek
and
lowly
will
never
save
you
.—Oh
, it’s
all
Greek
, I
know
, and
I
won’t
bother
you
any
more
with
it
. But
remember
one
thing
. There
aren’t
half
a
dozen
individualists
in
Oakland
, but
Martin
Eden
is
one
of
them
.”
He
signified
that
he
was
done
with
the
discussion
, and
turned
to
Ruth
.
“I’m
wrought
up
to-day
,”
he
said
in
an
undertone
. “All
I
want
to
do
is
to
love
, not
talk
.”
He
ignored
Mr
. Morse
, who
said
:-
“I
am
unconvinced
. All
socialists
are
Jesuits
. That
is
the
way
to
tell
them
.”
“We’ll
make
a
good
Republican
out
of
you
yet
,”
said
Judge
Blount
.
“The
man
on
horseback
will
arrive
before
that
time
,”
Martin
retorted
with
good
humor
, and
returned
to
Ruth
.
But
Mr
. Morse
was
not
content
. He
did
not
like
the
laziness
and
the
disinclination
for
sober
, legitimate
work
of
this
prospective
son-in-law
of
his
, for
whose
ideas
he
had
no
respect
and
of
whose
nature
he
had
no
understanding
. So
he
turned
the
conversation
to
Herbert
Spencer
. Judge
Blount
ably
seconded
him
, and
Martin
, whose
ears
had
pricked
at
the
first
mention
of
the
philosopher’s
name
, listened
to
the
judge
enunciate
a
grave
and
complacent
diatribe
against
Spencer
.
From
time
to
time
Mr
. Morse
glanced
at
Martin
, as
much
as
to
say
,
“There
, my
boy
, you
see
.”
“Chattering
daws
,”
Martin
muttered
under
his
breath
, and
went
on
talking
with
Ruth
and
Arthur
.
But
the
long
day
and
the
“real
dirt”
of
the
night
before
were
telling
upon
him
; and
, besides
, still
in
his
burnt
mind
was
what
had
made
him
angry
when
he
read
it
on
the
car
.
“What
is
the
matter
?”
Ruth
asked
suddenly
alarmed
by
the
effort
he
was
making
to
contain
himself
.
“There
is
no
god
but
the
Unknowable
, and
Herbert
Spencer
is
its
prophet
,”
Judge
Blount
was
saying
at
that
moment
.
Martin
turned
upon
him
.
“A
cheap
judgment
,”
he
remarked
quietly
. “I
heard
it
first
in
the
City
Hall
Park
, on
the
lips
of
a
workingman
who
ought
to
have
known
better
.
I
have
heard
it
often
since
, and
each
time
the
clap-trap
of
it
nauseates
me
. You
ought
to
be
ashamed
of
yourself
. To
hear
that
great
and
noble
man’s
name
upon
your
lips
is
like
finding
a
dew-drop
in
a
cesspool
. You
are
disgusting
.”
It
was
like
a
thunderbolt
. Judge
Blount
glared
at
him
with
apoplectic
countenance
, and
silence
reigned
. Mr
. Morse
was
secretly
pleased
. He
could
see
that
his
daughter
was
shocked
. It
was
what
he
wanted
to
do—to
bring
out
the
innate
ruffianism
of
this
man
he
did
not
like
.
Ruth’s
hand
sought
Martin’s
beseechingly
under
the
table
, but
his
blood
was
up
. He
was
inflamed
by
the
intellectual
pretence
and
fraud
of
those
who
sat
in
the
high
places
. A
Superior
Court
Judge
! It
was
only
several
years
before
that
he
had
looked
up
from
the
mire
at
such
glorious
entities
and
deemed
them
gods
.
Judge
Blount
recovered
himself
and
attempted
to
go
on
, addressing
himself
to
Martin
with
an
assumption
of
politeness
that
the
latter
understood
was
for
the
benefit
of
the
ladies
. Even
this
added
to
his
anger
. Was
there
no
honesty
in
the
world
?
“You
can’t
discuss
Spencer
with
me
,”
he
cried
. “You
do
not
know
any
more
about
Spencer
than
do
his
own
countrymen
. But
it
is
no
fault
of
yours
, I
grant
. It
is
just
a
phase
of
the
contemptible
ignorance
of
the
times
. I
ran
across
a
sample
of
it
on
my
way
here
this
evening
. I
was
reading
an
essay
by
Saleeby
on
Spencer
. You
should
read
it
. It
is
accessible
to
all
men
. You
can
buy
it
in
any
book-store
or
draw
it
from
the
public
library
. You
would
feel
ashamed
of
your
paucity
of
abuse
and
ignorance
of
that
noble
man
compared
with
what
Saleeby
has
collected
on
the
subject
. It
is
a
record
of
shame
that
would
shame
your
shame
.
“‘The
philosopher
of
the
half-educated
,’
he
was
called
by
an
academic
Philosopher
who
was
not
worthy
to
pollute
the
atmosphere
he
breathed
. I
don’t
think
you
have
read
ten
pages
of
Spencer
, but
there
have
been
critics
, assumably
more
intelligent
than
you
, who
have
read
no
more
than
you
of
Spencer
, who
publicly
challenged
his
followers
to
adduce
one
single
idea
from
all
his
writings—from
Herbert
Spencer’s
writings
,
the
man
who
has
impressed
the
stamp
of
his
genius
over
the
whole
field
of
scientific
research
and
modern
thought
; the
father
of
psychology
;
the
man
who
revolutionized
pedagogy
, so
that
to-day
the
child
of
the
French
peasant
is
taught
the
three
R’s
according
to
principles
laid
down
by
him
. And
the
little
gnats
of
men
sting
his
memory
when
they
get
their
very
bread
and
butter
from
the
technical
application
of
his
ideas
. What
little
of
worth
resides
in
their
brains
is
largely
due
to
him
. It
is
certain
that
had
he
never
lived
, most
of
what
is
correct
in
their
parrot-learned
knowledge
would
be
absent
.
“And
yet
a
man
like
Principal
Fairbanks
of
Oxford—a
man
who
sits
in
an
even
higher
place
than
you
, Judge
Blount—has
said
that
Spencer
will
be
dismissed
by
posterity
as
a
poet
and
dreamer
rather
than
a
thinker
.
Yappers
and
blatherskites
, the
whole
brood
of
them
! ‘“First
Principles”
is
not
wholly
destitute
of
a
certain
literary
power
,’
said
one
of
them
.
And
others
of
them
have
said
that
he
was
an
industrious
plodder
rather
than
an
original
thinker
. Yappers
and
blatherskites
! Yappers
and
blatherskites
!”
Martin
ceased
abruptly
, in
a
dead
silence
. Everybody
in
Ruth’s
family
looked
up
to
Judge
Blount
as
a
man
of
power
and
achievement
, and
they
were
horrified
at
Martin’s
outbreak
. The
remainder
of
the
dinner
passed
like
a
funeral
, the
judge
and
Mr
. Morse
confining
their
talk
to
each
other
, and
the
rest
of
the
conversation
being
extremely
desultory
. Then
afterward
, when
Ruth
and
Martin
were
alone
, there
was
a
scene
.
“You
are
unbearable
,”
she
wept
.
But
his
anger
still
smouldered
, and
he
kept
muttering
, “The
beasts
! The
beasts
!”
When
she
averred
he
had
insulted
the
judge
, he
retorted
:-
“By
telling
the
truth
about
him
?”
“I
don’t
care
whether
it
was
true
or
not
,”
she
insisted
. “There
are
certain
bounds
of
decency
, and
you
had
no
license
to
insult
anybody
.”
“Then
where
did
Judge
Blount
get
the
license
to
assault
truth
?”
Martin
demanded
. “Surely
to
assault
truth
is
a
more
serious
misdemeanor
than
to
insult
a
pygmy
personality
such
as
the
judge’s
. He
did
worse
than
that
. He
blackened
the
name
of
a
great
, noble
man
who
is
dead
. Oh
, the
beasts
! The
beasts
!”
His
complex
anger
flamed
afresh
, and
Ruth
was
in
terror
of
him
. Never
had
she
seen
him
so
angry
, and
it
was
all
mystified
and
unreasonable
to
her
comprehension
. And
yet
, through
her
very
terror
ran
the
fibres
of
fascination
that
had
drawn
and
that
still
drew
her
to
him—that
had
compelled
her
to
lean
towards
him
, and
, in
that
mad
, culminating
moment
, lay
her
hands
upon
his
neck
. She
was
hurt
and
outraged
by
what
had
taken
place
, and
yet
she
lay
in
his
arms
and
quivered
while
he
went
on
muttering
, “The
beasts
! The
beasts
!”
And
she
still
lay
there
when
he
said
: “I’ll
not
bother
your
table
again
, dear
. They
do
not
like
me
, and
it
is
wrong
of
me
to
thrust
my
objectionable
presence
upon
them
.
Besides
, they
are
just
as
objectionable
to
me
. Faugh
! They
are
sickening
. And
to
think
of
it
, I
dreamed
in
my
innocence
that
the
persons
who
sat
in
the
high
places
, who
lived
in
fine
houses
and
had
educations
and
bank
accounts
, were
worth
while
!”
CHAPTER
XXXVIII
.
“Come
on
, let’s
go
down
to
the
local
.”
So
spoke
Brissenden
, faint
from
a
hemorrhage
of
half
an
hour
before—the
second
hemorrhage
in
three
days
. The
perennial
whiskey
glass
was
in
his
hands
, and
he
drained
it
with
shaking
fingers
.
“What
do
I
want
with
socialism
?”
Martin
demanded
.
“Outsiders
are
allowed
five-minute
speeches
,”
the
sick
man
urged
. “Get
up
and
spout
. Tell
them
why
you
don’t
want
socialism
. Tell
them
what
you
think
about
them
and
their
ghetto
ethics
. Slam
Nietzsche
into
them
and
get
walloped
for
your
pains
. Make
a
scrap
of
it
. It
will
do
them
good
. Discussion
is
what
they
want
, and
what
you
want
, too
. You
see
,
I’d
like
to
see
you
a
socialist
before
I’m
gone
. It
will
give
you
a
sanction
for
your
existence
. It
is
the
one
thing
that
will
save
you
in
the
time
of
disappointment
that
is
coming
to
you
.”
“I
never
can
puzzle
out
why
you
, of
all
men
, are
a
socialist
,”
Martin
pondered
. “You
detest
the
crowd
so
. Surely
there
is
nothing
in
the
canaille
to
recommend
it
to
your
aesthetic
soul
.”
He
pointed
an
accusing
finger
at
the
whiskey
glass
which
the
other
was
refilling
.
“Socialism
doesn’t
seem
to
save
you
.”
“I’m
very
sick
,”
was
the
answer
. “With
you
it
is
different
. You
have
health
and
much
to
live
for
, and
you
must
be
handcuffed
to
life
somehow
. As
for
me
, you
wonder
why
I
am
a
socialist
. I’ll
tell
you
. It
is
because
Socialism
is
inevitable
; because
the
present
rotten
and
irrational
system
cannot
endure
; because
the
day
is
past
for
your
man
on
horseback
. The
slaves
won’t
stand
for
it
. They
are
too
many
, and
willy-nilly
they’ll
drag
down
the
would-be
equestrian
before
ever
he
gets
astride
. You
can’t
get
away
from
them
, and
you’ll
have
to
swallow
the
whole
slave-morality
. It’s
not
a
nice
mess
, I’ll
allow
. But
it’s
been
a-brewing
and
swallow
it
you
must
. You
are
antediluvian
anyway
,
with
your
Nietzsche
ideas
. The
past
is
past
, and
the
man
who
says
history
repeats
itself
is
a
liar
. Of
course
I
don’t
like
the
crowd
, but
what’s
a
poor
chap
to
do
? We
can’t
have
the
man
on
horseback
, and
anything
is
preferable
to
the
timid
swine
that
now
rule
. But
come
on
,
anyway
. I’m
loaded
to
the
guards
now
, and
if
I
sit
here
any
longer
,
I’ll
get
drunk
. And
you
know
the
doctor
says—damn
the
doctor
! I’ll
fool
him
yet
.”
It
was
Sunday
night
, and
they
found
the
small
hall
packed
by
the
Oakland
socialists
, chiefly
members
of
the
working
class
. The
speaker
,
a
clever
Jew
, won
Martin’s
admiration
at
the
same
time
that
he
aroused
his
antagonism
. The
man’s
stooped
and
narrow
shoulders
and
weazened
chest
proclaimed
him
the
true
child
of
the
crowded
ghetto
, and
strong
on
Martin
was
the
age-long
struggle
of
the
feeble
, wretched
slaves
against
the
lordly
handful
of
men
who
had
ruled
over
them
and
would
rule
over
them
to
the
end
of
time
. To
Martin
this
withered
wisp
of
a
creature
was
a
symbol
. He
was
the
figure
that
stood
forth
representative
of
the
whole
miserable
mass
of
weaklings
and
inefficients
who
perished
according
to
biological
law
on
the
ragged
confines
of
life
. They
were
the
unfit
. In
spite
of
their
cunning
philosophy
and
of
their
antlike
proclivities
for
coöperation
, Nature
rejected
them
for
the
exceptional
man
. Out
of
the
plentiful
spawn
of
life
she
flung
from
her
prolific
hand
she
selected
only
the
best
. It
was
by
the
same
method
that
men
, aping
her
, bred
race-horses
and
cucumbers
. Doubtless
, a
creator
of
a
Cosmos
could
have
devised
a
better
method
; but
creatures
of
this
particular
Cosmos
must
put
up
with
this
particular
method
. Of
course
, they
could
squirm
as
they
perished
, as
the
socialists
squirmed
, as
the
speaker
on
the
platform
and
the
perspiring
crowd
were
squirming
even
now
as
they
counselled
together
for
some
new
device
with
which
to
minimize
the
penalties
of
living
and
outwit
the
Cosmos
.
So
Martin
thought
, and
so
he
spoke
when
Brissenden
urged
him
to
give
them
hell
. He
obeyed
the
mandate
, walking
up
to
the
platform
, as
was
the
custom
, and
addressing
the
chairman
. He
began
in
a
low
voice
,
haltingly
, forming
into
order
the
ideas
which
had
surged
in
his
brain
while
the
Jew
was
speaking
. In
such
meetings
five
minutes
was
the
time
allotted
to
each
speaker
; but
when
Martin’s
five
minutes
were
up
, he
was
in
full
stride
, his
attack
upon
their
doctrines
but
half
completed
.
He
had
caught
their
interest
, and
the
audience
urged
the
chairman
by
acclamation
to
extend
Martin’s
time
. They
appreciated
him
as
a
foeman
worthy
of
their
intellect
, and
they
listened
intently
, following
every
word
. He
spoke
with
fire
and
conviction
, mincing
no
words
in
his
attack
upon
the
slaves
and
their
morality
and
tactics
and
frankly
alluding
to
his
hearers
as
the
slaves
in
question
. He
quoted
Spencer
and
Malthus
,
and
enunciated
the
biological
law
of
development
.
“And
so
,”
he
concluded
, in
a
swift
résumé
, “no
state
composed
of
the
slave-types
can
endure
. The
old
law
of
development
still
holds
. In
the
struggle
for
existence
, as
I
have
shown
, the
strong
and
the
progeny
of
the
strong
tend
to
survive
, while
the
weak
and
the
progeny
of
the
weak
are
crushed
and
tend
to
perish
. The
result
is
that
the
strong
and
the
progeny
of
the
strong
survive
, and
, so
long
as
the
struggle
obtains
,
the
strength
of
each
generation
increases
. That
is
development
. But
you
slaves—it
is
too
bad
to
be
slaves
, I
grant—but
you
slaves
dream
of
a
society
where
the
law
of
development
will
be
annulled
, where
no
weaklings
and
inefficients
will
perish
, where
every
inefficient
will
have
as
much
as
he
wants
to
eat
as
many
times
a
day
as
he
desires
, and
where
all
will
marry
and
have
progeny—the
weak
as
well
as
the
strong
.
What
will
be
the
result
? No
longer
will
the
strength
and
life-value
of
each
generation
increase
. On
the
contrary
, it
will
diminish
. There
is
the
Nemesis
of
your
slave
philosophy
. Your
society
of
slaves—of
, by
,
and
for
, slaves—must
inevitably
weaken
and
go
to
pieces
as
the
life
which
composes
it
weakens
and
goes
to
pieces
.
“Remember
, I
am
enunciating
biology
and
not
sentimental
ethics
. No
state
of
slaves
can
stand—”
“How
about
the
United
States
?”
a
man
yelled
from
the
audience
.
“And
how
about
it
?”
Martin
retorted
. “The
thirteen
colonies
threw
off
their
rulers
and
formed
the
Republic
so-called
. The
slaves
were
their
own
masters
. There
were
no
more
masters
of
the
sword
. But
you
couldn’t
get
along
without
masters
of
some
sort
, and
there
arose
a
new
set
of
masters—not
the
great
, virile
, noble
men
, but
the
shrewd
and
spidery
traders
and
money-lenders
. And
they
enslaved
you
over
again—but
not
frankly
, as
the
true
, noble
men
would
do
with
weight
of
their
own
right
arms
, but
secretly
, by
spidery
machinations
and
by
wheedling
and
cajolery
and
lies
. They
have
purchased
your
slave
judges
, they
have
debauched
your
slave
legislatures
, and
they
have
forced
to
worse
horrors
than
chattel
slavery
your
slave
boys
and
girls
. Two
million
of
your
children
are
toiling
to-day
in
this
trader-oligarchy
of
the
United
States
. Ten
millions
of
you
slaves
are
not
properly
sheltered
nor
properly
fed
.
“But
to
return
. I
have
shown
that
no
society
of
slaves
can
endure
,
because
, in
its
very
nature
, such
society
must
annul
the
law
of
development
. No
sooner
can
a
slave
society
be
organized
than
deterioration
sets
in
. It
is
easy
for
you
to
talk
of
annulling
the
law
of
development
, but
where
is
the
new
law
of
development
that
will
maintain
your
strength
? Formulate
it
. Is
it
already
formulated
? Then
state
it
.”
Martin
took
his
seat
amidst
an
uproar
of
voices
. A
score
of
men
were
on
their
feet
clamoring
for
recognition
from
the
chair
. And
one
by
one
,
encouraged
by
vociferous
applause
, speaking
with
fire
and
enthusiasm
and
excited
gestures
, they
replied
to
the
attack
. It
was
a
wild
night—but
it
was
wild
intellectually
, a
battle
of
ideas
. Some
strayed
from
the
point
, but
most
of
the
speakers
replied
directly
to
Martin
.
They
shook
him
with
lines
of
thought
that
were
new
to
him
; and
gave
him
insights
, not
into
new
biological
laws
, but
into
new
applications
of
the
old
laws
. They
were
too
earnest
to
be
always
polite
, and
more
than
once
the
chairman
rapped
and
pounded
for
order
.
It
chanced
that
a
cub
reporter
sat
in
the
audience
, detailed
there
on
a
day
dull
of
news
and
impressed
by
the
urgent
need
of
journalism
for
sensation
. He
was
not
a
bright
cub
reporter
. He
was
merely
facile
and
glib
. He
was
too
dense
to
follow
the
discussion
. In
fact
, he
had
a
comfortable
feeling
that
he
was
vastly
superior
to
these
wordy
maniacs
of
the
working
class
. Also
, he
had
a
great
respect
for
those
who
sat
in
the
high
places
and
dictated
the
policies
of
nations
and
newspapers
.
Further
, he
had
an
ideal
, namely
, of
achieving
that
excellence
of
the
perfect
reporter
who
is
able
to
make
something—even
a
great
deal—out
of
nothing
.
He
did
not
know
what
all
the
talk
was
about
. It
was
not
necessary
.
Words
like
_revolution_
gave
him
his
cue
. Like
a
paleontologist
, able
to
reconstruct
an
entire
skeleton
from
one
fossil
bone
, he
was
able
to
reconstruct
a
whole
speech
from
the
one
word
_revolution_
. He
did
it
that
night
, and
he
did
it
well
; and
since
Martin
had
made
the
biggest
stir
, he
put
it
all
into
his
mouth
and
made
him
the
arch-anarch
of
the
show
, transforming
his
reactionary
individualism
into
the
most
lurid
,
red-shirt
socialist
utterance
. The
cub
reporter
was
an
artist
, and
it
was
a
large
brush
with
which
he
laid
on
the
local
color—wild-eyed
long-haired
men
, neurasthenic
and
degenerate
types
of
men
, voices
shaken
with
passion
, clenched
fists
raised
on
high
, and
all
projected
against
a
background
of
oaths
, yells
, and
the
throaty
rumbling
of
angry
men
.
CHAPTER
XXXIX
.
Over
the
coffee
, in
his
little
room
, Martin
read
next
morning’s
paper
.
It
was
a
novel
experience
to
find
himself
head-lined
, on
the
first
page
at
that
; and
he
was
surprised
to
learn
that
he
was
the
most
notorious
leader
of
the
Oakland
socialists
. He
ran
over
the
violent
speech
the
cub
reporter
had
constructed
for
him
, and
, though
at
first
he
was
angered
by
the
fabrication
, in
the
end
he
tossed
the
paper
aside
with
a
laugh
.
“Either
the
man
was
drunk
or
criminally
malicious
,”
he
said
that
afternoon
, from
his
perch
on
the
bed
, when
Brissenden
had
arrived
and
dropped
limply
into
the
one
chair
.
“But
what
do
you
care
?”
Brissenden
asked
. “Surely
you
don’t
desire
the
approval
of
the
bourgeois
swine
that
read
the
newspapers
?”
Martin
thought
for
a
while
, then
said
:-
“No
, I
really
don’t
care
for
their
approval
, not
a
whit
. On
the
other
hand
, it’s
very
likely
to
make
my
relations
with
Ruth’s
family
a
trifle
awkward
. Her
father
always
contended
I
was
a
socialist
, and
this
miserable
stuff
will
clinch
his
belief
. Not
that
I
care
for
his
opinion—but
what’s
the
odds
? I
want
to
read
you
what
I’ve
been
doing
to-day
. It’s
‘Overdue
,’
of
course
, and
I’m
just
about
halfway
through
.”
He
was
reading
aloud
when
Maria
thrust
open
the
door
and
ushered
in
a
young
man
in
a
natty
suit
who
glanced
briskly
about
him
, noting
the
oil-burner
and
the
kitchen
in
the
corner
before
his
gaze
wandered
on
to
Martin
.
“Sit
down
,”
Brissenden
said
.
Martin
made
room
for
the
young
man
on
the
bed
and
waited
for
him
to
broach
his
business
.
“I
heard
you
speak
last
night
, Mr
. Eden
, and
I’ve
come
to
interview
you
,”
he
began
.
Brissenden
burst
out
in
a
hearty
laugh
.
“A
brother
socialist
?”
the
reporter
asked
, with
a
quick
glance
at
Brissenden
that
appraised
the
color-value
of
that
cadaverous
and
dying
man
.
“And
he
wrote
that
report
,”
Martin
said
softly
. “Why
, he
is
only
a
boy
!”
“Why
don’t
you
poke
him
?”
Brissenden
asked
. “I’d
give
a
thousand
dollars
to
have
my
lungs
back
for
five
minutes
.”
The
cub
reporter
was
a
trifle
perplexed
by
this
talking
over
him
and
around
him
and
at
him
. But
he
had
been
commended
for
his
brilliant
description
of
the
socialist
meeting
and
had
further
been
detailed
to
get
a
personal
interview
with
Martin
Eden
, the
leader
of
the
organized
menace
to
society
.
“You
do
not
object
to
having
your
picture
taken
, Mr
. Eden
?”
he
said
.
“I’ve
a
staff
photographer
outside
, you
see
, and
he
says
it
will
be
better
to
take
you
right
away
before
the
sun
gets
lower
. Then
we
can
have
the
interview
afterward
.”
“A
photographer
,”
Brissenden
said
meditatively
. “Poke
him
, Martin
! Poke
him
!”
“I
guess
I’m
getting
old
,”
was
the
answer
. “I
know
I
ought
, but
I
really
haven’t
the
heart
. It
doesn’t
seem
to
matter
.”
“For
his
mother’s
sake
,”
Brissenden
urged
.
“It’s
worth
considering
,”
Martin
replied
; “but
it
doesn’t
seem
worth
while
enough
to
rouse
sufficient
energy
in
me
. You
see
, it
does
take
energy
to
give
a
fellow
a
poking
. Besides
, what
does
it
matter
?”
“That’s
right—that’s
the
way
to
take
it
,”
the
cub
announced
airily
,
though
he
had
already
begun
to
glance
anxiously
at
the
door
.
“But
it
wasn’t
true
, not
a
word
of
what
he
wrote
,”
Martin
went
on
,
confining
his
attention
to
Brissenden
.
“It
was
just
in
a
general
way
a
description
, you
understand
,”
the
cub
ventured
, “and
besides
, it’s
good
advertising
. That’s
what
counts
. It
was
a
favor
to
you
.”
“It’s
good
advertising
, Martin
, old
boy
,”
Brissenden
repeated
solemnly
.
“And
it
was
a
favor
to
me—think
of
that
!”
was
Martin’s
contribution
.
“Let
me
see—where
were
you
born
, Mr
. Eden
?”
the
cub
asked
, assuming
an
air
of
expectant
attention
.
“He
doesn’t
take
notes
,”
said
Brissenden
. “He
remembers
it
all
.”
“That
is
sufficient
for
me
.”
The
cub
was
trying
not
to
look
worried
.
“No
decent
reporter
needs
to
bother
with
notes
.”
“That
was
sufficient—for
last
night
.”
But
Brissenden
was
not
a
disciple
of
quietism
, and
he
changed
his
attitude
abruptly
. “Martin
, if
you
don’t
poke
him
, I’ll
do
it
myself
, if
I
fall
dead
on
the
floor
the
next
moment
.”
“How
will
a
spanking
do
?”
Martin
asked
.
Brissenden
considered
judicially
, and
nodded
his
head
.
The
next
instant
Martin
was
seated
on
the
edge
of
the
bed
with
the
cub
face
downward
across
his
knees
.
“Now
don’t
bite
,”
Martin
warned
, “or
else
I’ll
have
to
punch
your
face
.
It
would
be
a
pity
, for
it
is
such
a
pretty
face
.”
His
uplifted
hand
descended
, and
thereafter
rose
and
fell
in
a
swift
and
steady
rhythm
. The
cub
struggled
and
cursed
and
squirmed
, but
did
not
offer
to
bite
. Brissenden
looked
on
gravely
, though
once
he
grew
excited
and
gripped
the
whiskey
bottle
, pleading
, “Here
, just
let
me
swat
him
once
.”
“Sorry
my
hand
played
out
,”
Martin
said
, when
at
last
he
desisted
. “It
is
quite
numb
.”
He
uprighted
the
cub
and
perched
him
on
the
bed
.
“I’ll
have
you
arrested
for
this
,”
he
snarled
, tears
of
boyish
indignation
running
down
his
flushed
cheeks
. “I’ll
make
you
sweat
for
this
. You’ll
see
.”
“The
pretty
thing
,”
Martin
remarked
. “He
doesn’t
realize
that
he
has
entered
upon
the
downward
path
. It
is
not
honest
, it
is
not
square
, it
is
not
manly
, to
tell
lies
about
one’s
fellow-creatures
the
way
he
has
done
, and
he
doesn’t
know
it
.”
“He
has
to
come
to
us
to
be
told
,”
Brissenden
filled
in
a
pause
.
“Yes
, to
me
whom
he
has
maligned
and
injured
. My
grocery
will
undoubtedly
refuse
me
credit
now
. The
worst
of
it
is
that
the
poor
boy
will
keep
on
this
way
until
he
deteriorates
into
a
first-class
newspaper
man
and
also
a
first-class
scoundrel
.”
“But
there
is
yet
time
,”
quoth
Brissenden
. “Who
knows
but
what
you
may
prove
the
humble
instrument
to
save
him
. Why
didn’t
you
let
me
swat
him
just
once
? I’d
like
to
have
had
a
hand
in
it
.”
“I’ll
have
you
arrested
, the
pair
of
you
, you
b-b-big
brutes
,”
sobbed
the
erring
soul
.
“No
, his
mouth
is
too
pretty
and
too
weak
.”
Martin
shook
his
head
lugubriously
. “I’m
afraid
I’ve
numbed
my
hand
in
vain
. The
young
man
cannot
reform
. He
will
become
eventually
a
very
great
and
successful
newspaper
man
. He
has
no
conscience
. That
alone
will
make
him
great
.”
With
that
the
cub
passed
out
the
door
in
trepidation
to
the
last
for
fear
that
Brissenden
would
hit
him
in
the
back
with
the
bottle
he
still
clutched
.
In
the
next
morning’s
paper
Martin
learned
a
great
deal
more
about
himself
that
was
new
to
him
. “We
are
the
sworn
enemies
of
society
,”
he
found
himself
quoted
as
saying
in
a
column
interview
. “No
, we
are
not
anarchists
but
socialists
.”
When
the
reporter
pointed
out
to
him
that
there
seemed
little
difference
between
the
two
schools
, Martin
had
shrugged
his
shoulders
in
silent
affirmation
. His
face
was
described
as
bilaterally
asymmetrical
, and
various
other
signs
of
degeneration
were
described
. Especially
notable
were
his
thuglike
hands
and
the
fiery
gleams
in
his
blood-shot
eyes
.
He
learned
, also
, that
he
spoke
nightly
to
the
workmen
in
the
City
Hall
Park
, and
that
among
the
anarchists
and
agitators
that
there
inflamed
the
minds
of
the
people
he
drew
the
largest
audiences
and
made
the
most
revolutionary
speeches
. The
cub
painted
a
high-light
picture
of
his
poor
little
room
, its
oil-stove
and
the
one
chair
, and
of
the
death’s-head
tramp
who
kept
him
company
and
who
looked
as
if
he
had
just
emerged
from
twenty
years
of
solitary
confinement
in
some
fortress
dungeon
.
The
cub
had
been
industrious
. He
had
scurried
around
and
nosed
out
Martin’s
family
history
, and
procured
a
photograph
of
Higginbotham’s
Cash
Store
with
Bernard
Higginbotham
himself
standing
out
in
front
.
That
gentleman
was
depicted
as
an
intelligent
, dignified
businessman
who
had
no
patience
with
his
brother-in-law’s
socialistic
views
, and
no
patience
with
the
brother-in-law
, either
, whom
he
was
quoted
as
characterizing
as
a
lazy
good-for-nothing
who
wouldn’t
take
a
job
when
it
was
offered
to
him
and
who
would
go
to
jail
yet
. Hermann
von
Schmidt
, Marian’s
husband
, had
likewise
been
interviewed
. He
had
called
Martin
the
black
sheep
of
the
family
and
repudiated
him
. “He
tried
to
sponge
off
of
me
, but
I
put
a
stop
to
that
good
and
quick
,”
Von
Schmidt
had
said
to
the
reporter
. “He
knows
better
than
to
come
bumming
around
here
. A
man
who
won’t
work
is
no
good
, take
that
from
me
.”
This
time
Martin
was
genuinely
angry
. Brissenden
looked
upon
the
affair
as
a
good
joke
, but
he
could
not
console
Martin
, who
knew
that
it
would
be
no
easy
task
to
explain
to
Ruth
. As
for
her
father
, he
knew
that
he
must
be
overjoyed
with
what
had
happened
and
that
he
would
make
the
most
of
it
to
break
off
the
engagement
. How
much
he
would
make
of
it
he
was
soon
to
realize
. The
afternoon
mail
brought
a
letter
from
Ruth
.
Martin
opened
it
with
a
premonition
of
disaster
, and
read
it
standing
at
the
open
door
when
he
had
received
it
from
the
postman
. As
he
read
,
mechanically
his
hand
sought
his
pocket
for
the
tobacco
and
brown
paper
of
his
old
cigarette
days
. He
was
not
aware
that
the
pocket
was
empty
or
that
he
had
even
reached
for
the
materials
with
which
to
roll
a
cigarette
.
It
was
not
a
passionate
letter
. There
were
no
touches
of
anger
in
it
.
But
all
the
way
through
, from
the
first
sentence
to
the
last
, was
sounded
the
note
of
hurt
and
disappointment
. She
had
expected
better
of
him
. She
had
thought
he
had
got
over
his
youthful
wildness
, that
her
love
for
him
had
been
sufficiently
worth
while
to
enable
him
to
live
seriously
and
decently
. And
now
her
father
and
mother
had
taken
a
firm
stand
and
commanded
that
the
engagement
be
broken
. That
they
were
justified
in
this
she
could
not
but
admit
. Their
relation
could
never
be
a
happy
one
. It
had
been
unfortunate
from
the
first
. But
one
regret
she
voiced
in
the
whole
letter
, and
it
was
a
bitter
one
to
Martin
. “If
only
you
had
settled
down
to
some
position
and
attempted
to
make
something
of
yourself
,”
she
wrote
. “But
it
was
not
to
be
. Your
past
life
had
been
too
wild
and
irregular
. I
can
understand
that
you
are
not
to
be
blamed
. You
could
act
only
according
to
your
nature
and
your
early
training
. So
I
do
not
blame
you
, Martin
. Please
remember
that
. It
was
simply
a
mistake
. As
father
and
mother
have
contended
, we
were
not
made
for
each
other
, and
we
should
both
be
happy
because
it
was
discovered
not
too
late
.”
. . “There
is
no
use
trying
to
see
me
,”
she
said
toward
the
last
. “It
would
be
an
unhappy
meeting
for
both
of
us
,
as
well
as
for
my
mother
. I
feel
, as
it
is
, that
I
have
caused
her
great
pain
and
worry
. I
shall
have
to
do
much
living
to
atone
for
it
.”
He
read
it
through
to
the
end
, carefully
, a
second
time
, then
sat
down
and
replied
. He
outlined
the
remarks
he
had
uttered
at
the
socialist
meeting
, pointing
out
that
they
were
in
all
ways
the
converse
of
what
the
newspaper
had
put
in
his
mouth
. Toward
the
end
of
the
letter
he
was
God’s
own
lover
pleading
passionately
for
love
. “Please
answer
,”
he
said
, “and
in
your
answer
you
have
to
tell
me
but
one
thing
. Do
you
love
me
? That
is
all—the
answer
to
that
one
question
.”
But
no
answer
came
the
next
day
, nor
the
next
. “Overdue”
lay
untouched
upon
the
table
, and
each
day
the
heap
of
returned
manuscripts
under
the
table
grew
larger
. For
the
first
time
Martin’s
glorious
sleep
was
interrupted
by
insomnia
, and
he
tossed
through
long
, restless
nights
.
Three
times
he
called
at
the
Morse
home
, but
was
turned
away
by
the
servant
who
answered
the
bell
. Brissenden
lay
sick
in
his
hotel
, too
feeble
to
stir
out
, and
, though
Martin
was
with
him
often
, he
did
not
worry
him
with
his
troubles
.
For
Martin’s
troubles
were
many
. The
aftermath
of
the
cub
reporter’s
deed
was
even
wider
than
Martin
had
anticipated
. The
Portuguese
grocer
refused
him
further
credit
, while
the
greengrocer
, who
was
an
American
and
proud
of
it
, had
called
him
a
traitor
to
his
country
and
refused
further
dealings
with
him—carrying
his
patriotism
to
such
a
degree
that
he
cancelled
Martin’s
account
and
forbade
him
ever
to
attempt
to
pay
it
. The
talk
in
the
neighborhood
reflected
the
same
feeling
, and
indignation
against
Martin
ran
high
. No
one
would
have
anything
to
do
with
a
socialist
traitor
. Poor
Maria
was
dubious
and
frightened
, but
she
remained
loyal
. The
children
of
the
neighborhood
recovered
from
the
awe
of
the
grand
carriage
which
once
had
visited
Martin
, and
from
safe
distances
they
called
him
“hobo”
and
“bum
.”
The
Silva
tribe
, however
,
stanchly
defended
him
, fighting
more
than
one
pitched
battle
for
his
honor
, and
black
eyes
and
bloody
noses
became
quite
the
order
of
the
day
and
added
to
Maria’s
perplexities
and
troubles
.
Once
, Martin
met
Gertrude
on
the
street
, down
in
Oakland
, and
learned
what
he
knew
could
not
be
otherwise—that
Bernard
Higginbotham
was
furious
with
him
for
having
dragged
the
family
into
public
disgrace
,
and
that
he
had
forbidden
him
the
house
.
“Why
don’t
you
go
away
, Martin
?”
Gertrude
had
begged
. “Go
away
and
get
a
job
somewhere
and
steady
down
. Afterwards
, when
this
all
blows
over
,
you
can
come
back
.”
Martin
shook
his
head
, but
gave
no
explanations
. How
could
he
explain
?
He
was
appalled
at
the
awful
intellectual
chasm
that
yawned
between
him
and
his
people
. He
could
never
cross
it
and
explain
to
them
his
position
,—the
Nietzschean
position
, in
regard
to
socialism
. There
were
not
words
enough
in
the
English
language
, nor
in
any
language
, to
make
his
attitude
and
conduct
intelligible
to
them
. Their
highest
concept
of
right
conduct
, in
his
case
, was
to
get
a
job
. That
was
their
first
word
and
their
last
. It
constituted
their
whole
lexicon
of
ideas
. Get
a
job
!
Go
to
work
! Poor
, stupid
slaves
, he
thought
, while
his
sister
talked
.
Small
wonder
the
world
belonged
to
the
strong
. The
slaves
were
obsessed
by
their
own
slavery
. A
job
was
to
them
a
golden
fetich
before
which
they
fell
down
and
worshipped
.
He
shook
his
head
again
, when
Gertrude
offered
him
money
, though
he
knew
that
within
the
day
he
would
have
to
make
a
trip
to
the
pawnbroker
.
“Don’t
come
near
Bernard
now
,”
she
admonished
him
. “After
a
few
months
,
when
he
is
cooled
down
, if
you
want
to
, you
can
get
the
job
of
drivin’
delivery-wagon
for
him
. Any
time
you
want
me
, just
send
for
me
an’
I’ll
come
. Don’t
forget
.”
She
went
away
weeping
audibly
, and
he
felt
a
pang
of
sorrow
shoot
through
him
at
sight
of
her
heavy
body
and
uncouth
gait
. As
he
watched
her
go
, the
Nietzschean
edifice
seemed
to
shake
and
totter
. The
slave-class
in
the
abstract
was
all
very
well
, but
it
was
not
wholly
satisfactory
when
it
was
brought
home
to
his
own
family
. And
yet
, if
there
was
ever
a
slave
trampled
by
the
strong
, that
slave
was
his
sister
Gertrude
. He
grinned
savagely
at
the
paradox
. A
fine
Nietzsche-man
he
was
, to
allow
his
intellectual
concepts
to
be
shaken
by
the
first
sentiment
or
emotion
that
strayed
along—ay
, to
be
shaken
by
the
slave-morality
itself
, for
that
was
what
his
pity
for
his
sister
really
was
. The
true
noble
men
were
above
pity
and
compassion
. Pity
and
compassion
had
been
generated
in
the
subterranean
barracoons
of
the
slaves
and
were
no
more
than
the
agony
and
sweat
of
the
crowded
miserables
and
weaklings
.
CHAPTER
XL
.
“Overdue”
still
continued
to
lie
forgotten
on
the
table
. Every
manuscript
that
he
had
had
out
now
lay
under
the
table
. Only
one
manuscript
he
kept
going
, and
that
was
Brissenden’s
“Ephemera
.”
His
bicycle
and
black
suit
were
again
in
pawn
, and
the
type-writer
people
were
once
more
worrying
about
the
rent
. But
such
things
no
longer
bothered
him
. He
was
seeking
a
new
orientation
, and
until
that
was
found
his
life
must
stand
still
.
After
several
weeks
, what
he
had
been
waiting
for
happened
. He
met
Ruth
on
the
street
. It
was
true
, she
was
accompanied
by
her
brother
, Norman
,
and
it
was
true
that
they
tried
to
ignore
him
and
that
Norman
attempted
to
wave
him
aside
.
“If
you
interfere
with
my
sister
, I’ll
call
an
officer
,”
Norman
threatened
. “She
does
not
wish
to
speak
with
you
, and
your
insistence
is
insult
.”
“If
you
persist
, you’ll
have
to
call
that
officer
, and
then
you’ll
get
your
name
in
the
papers
,”
Martin
answered
grimly
. “And
now
, get
out
of
my
way
and
get
the
officer
if
you
want
to
. I’m
going
to
talk
with
Ruth
.”
“I
want
to
have
it
from
your
own
lips
,”
he
said
to
her
.
She
was
pale
and
trembling
, but
she
held
up
and
looked
inquiringly
.
“The
question
I
asked
in
my
letter
,”
he
prompted
.
Norman
made
an
impatient
movement
, but
Martin
checked
him
with
a
swift
look
.
She
shook
her
head
.
“Is
all
this
of
your
own
free
will
?”
he
demanded
.
“It
is
.”
She
spoke
in
a
low
, firm
voice
and
with
deliberation
. “It
is
of
my
own
free
will
. You
have
disgraced
me
so
that
I
am
ashamed
to
meet
my
friends
. They
are
all
talking
about
me
, I
know
. That
is
all
I
can
tell
you
. You
have
made
me
very
unhappy
, and
I
never
wish
to
see
you
again
.”
“Friends
! Gossip
! Newspaper
misreports
! Surely
such
things
are
not
stronger
than
love
! I
can
only
believe
that
you
never
loved
me
.”
A
blush
drove
the
pallor
from
her
face
.
“After
what
has
passed
?”
she
said
faintly
. “Martin
, you
do
not
know
what
you
are
saying
. I
am
not
common
.”
“You
see
, she
doesn’t
want
to
have
anything
to
do
with
you
,”
Norman
blurted
out
, starting
on
with
her
.
Martin
stood
aside
and
let
them
pass
, fumbling
unconsciously
in
his
coat
pocket
for
the
tobacco
and
brown
papers
that
were
not
there
.
It
was
a
long
walk
to
North
Oakland
, but
it
was
not
until
he
went
up
the
steps
and
entered
his
room
that
he
knew
he
had
walked
it
. He
found
himself
sitting
on
the
edge
of
the
bed
and
staring
about
him
like
an
awakened
somnambulist
. He
noticed
“Overdue”
lying
on
the
table
and
drew
up
his
chair
and
reached
for
his
pen
. There
was
in
his
nature
a
logical
compulsion
toward
completeness
. Here
was
something
undone
. It
had
been
deferred
against
the
completion
of
something
else
. Now
that
something
else
had
been
finished
, and
he
would
apply
himself
to
this
task
until
it
was
finished
. What
he
would
do
next
he
did
not
know
. All
that
he
did
know
was
that
a
climacteric
in
his
life
had
been
attained
. A
period
had
been
reached
, and
he
was
rounding
it
off
in
workman-like
fashion
. He
was
not
curious
about
the
future
. He
would
soon
enough
find
out
what
it
held
in
store
for
him
. Whatever
it
was
, it
did
not
matter
. Nothing
seemed
to
matter
.
For
five
days
he
toiled
on
at
“Overdue
,”
going
nowhere
, seeing
nobody
,
and
eating
meagrely
. On
the
morning
of
the
sixth
day
the
postman
brought
him
a
thin
letter
from
the
editor
of
_The
Parthenon_
. A
glance
told
him
that
“Ephemera”
was
accepted
. “We
have
submitted
the
poem
to
Mr
. Cartwright
Bruce
,”
the
editor
went
on
to
say
, “and
he
has
reported
so
favorably
upon
it
that
we
cannot
let
it
go
. As
an
earnest
of
our
pleasure
in
publishing
the
poem
, let
me
tell
you
that
we
have
set
it
for
the
August
number
, our
July
number
being
already
made
up
. Kindly
extend
our
pleasure
and
our
thanks
to
Mr
. Brissenden
. Please
send
by
return
mail
his
photograph
and
biographical
data
. If
our
honorarium
is
unsatisfactory
, kindly
telegraph
us
at
once
and
state
what
you
consider
a
fair
price
.”
Since
the
honorarium
they
had
offered
was
three
hundred
and
fifty
dollars
, Martin
thought
it
not
worth
while
to
telegraph
. Then
, too
,
there
was
Brissenden’s
consent
to
be
gained
. Well
, he
had
been
right
,
after
all
. Here
was
one
magazine
editor
who
knew
real
poetry
when
he
saw
it
. And
the
price
was
splendid
, even
though
it
was
for
the
poem
of
a
century
. As
for
Cartwright
Bruce
, Martin
knew
that
he
was
the
one
critic
for
whose
opinions
Brissenden
had
any
respect
.
Martin
rode
down
town
on
an
electric
car
, and
as
he
watched
the
houses
and
cross-streets
slipping
by
he
was
aware
of
a
regret
that
he
was
not
more
elated
over
his
friend’s
success
and
over
his
own
signal
victory
.
The
one
critic
in
the
United
States
had
pronounced
favorably
on
the
poem
, while
his
own
contention
that
good
stuff
could
find
its
way
into
the
magazines
had
proved
correct
. But
enthusiasm
had
lost
its
spring
in
him
, and
he
found
that
he
was
more
anxious
to
see
Brissenden
than
he
was
to
carry
the
good
news
. The
acceptance
of
_The
Parthenon_
had
recalled
to
him
that
during
his
five
days’
devotion
to
“Overdue”
he
had
not
heard
from
Brissenden
nor
even
thought
about
him
. For
the
first
time
Martin
realized
the
daze
he
had
been
in
, and
he
felt
shame
for
having
forgotten
his
friend
. But
even
the
shame
did
not
burn
very
sharply
. He
was
numb
to
emotions
of
any
sort
save
the
artistic
ones
concerned
in
the
writing
of
“Overdue
.”
So
far
as
other
affairs
were
concerned
, he
had
been
in
a
trance
. For
that
matter
, he
was
still
in
a
trance
. All
this
life
through
which
the
electric
car
whirred
seemed
remote
and
unreal
, and
he
would
have
experienced
little
interest
and
less
shock
if
the
great
stone
steeple
of
the
church
he
passed
had
suddenly
crumbled
to
mortar-dust
upon
his
head
.
At
the
hotel
he
hurried
up
to
Brissenden’s
room
, and
hurried
down
again
. The
room
was
empty
. All
luggage
was
gone
.
“Did
Mr
. Brissenden
leave
any
address
?”
he
asked
the
clerk
, who
looked
at
him
curiously
for
a
moment
.
“Haven’t
you
heard
?”
he
asked
.
Martin
shook
his
head
.
“Why
, the
papers
were
full
of
it
. He
was
found
dead
in
bed
. Suicide
.
Shot
himself
through
the
head
.”
“Is
he
buried
yet
?”
Martin
seemed
to
hear
his
voice
, like
some
one
else’s
voice
, from
a
long
way
off
, asking
the
question
.
“No
. The
body
was
shipped
East
after
the
inquest
. Lawyers
engaged
by
his
people
saw
to
the
arrangements
.”
“They
were
quick
about
it
, I
must
say
,”
Martin
commented
.
“Oh
, I
don’t
know
. It
happened
five
days
ago
.”
“Five
days
ago
?”
“Yes
, five
days
ago
.”
“Oh
,”
Martin
said
as
he
turned
and
went
out
.
At
the
corner
he
stepped
into
the
Western
Union
and
sent
a
telegram
to
_The
Parthenon_
, advising
them
to
proceed
with
the
publication
of
the
poem
. He
had
in
his
pocket
but
five
cents
with
which
to
pay
his
carfare
home
, so
he
sent
the
message
collect
.
Once
in
his
room
, he
resumed
his
writing
. The
days
and
nights
came
and
went
, and
he
sat
at
his
table
and
wrote
on
. He
went
nowhere
, save
to
the
pawnbroker
, took
no
exercise
, and
ate
methodically
when
he
was
hungry
and
had
something
to
cook
, and
just
as
methodically
went
without
when
he
had
nothing
to
cook
. Composed
as
the
story
was
, in
advance
,
chapter
by
chapter
, he
nevertheless
saw
and
developed
an
opening
that
increased
the
power
of
it
, though
it
necessitated
twenty
thousand
additional
words
. It
was
not
that
there
was
any
vital
need
that
the
thing
should
be
well
done
, but
that
his
artistic
canons
compelled
him
to
do
it
well
. He
worked
on
in
the
daze
, strangely
detached
from
the
world
around
him
, feeling
like
a
familiar
ghost
among
these
literary
trappings
of
his
former
life
. He
remembered
that
some
one
had
said
that
a
ghost
was
the
spirit
of
a
man
who
was
dead
and
who
did
not
have
sense
enough
to
know
it
; and
he
paused
for
the
moment
to
wonder
if
he
were
really
dead
and
unaware
of
it
.
Came
the
day
when
“Overdue”
was
finished
. The
agent
of
the
type-writer
firm
had
come
for
the
machine
, and
he
sat
on
the
bed
while
Martin
, on
the
one
chair
, typed
the
last
pages
of
the
final
chapter
. “Finis
,”
he
wrote
, in
capitals
, at
the
end
, and
to
him
it
was
indeed
finis
. He
watched
the
type-writer
carried
out
the
door
with
a
feeling
of
relief
,
then
went
over
and
lay
down
on
the
bed
. He
was
faint
from
hunger
. Food
had
not
passed
his
lips
in
thirty-six
hours
, but
he
did
not
think
about
it
. He
lay
on
his
back
, with
closed
eyes
, and
did
not
think
at
all
,
while
the
daze
or
stupor
slowly
welled
up
, saturating
his
consciousness
. Half
in
delirium
, he
began
muttering
aloud
the
lines
of
an
anonymous
poem
Brissenden
had
been
fond
of
quoting
to
him
. Maria
,
listening
anxiously
outside
his
door
, was
perturbed
by
his
monotonous
utterance
. The
words
in
themselves
were
not
significant
to
her
, but
the
fact
that
he
was
saying
them
was
. “I
have
done
,”
was
the
burden
of
the
poem
.
“‘I
have
done—
Put
by
the
lute
.
Song
and
singing
soon
are
over
As
the
airy
shades
that
hover
In
among
the
purple
clover
.
I
have
done—
Put
by
the
lute
.
Once
I
sang
as
early
thrushes
Sing
among
the
dewy
bushes
;
Now
I’m
mute
.
I
am
like
a
weary
linnet
,
For
my
throat
has
no
song
in
it
;
I
have
had
my
singing
minute
.
I
have
done
.
Put
by
the
lute
.’”
Maria
could
stand
it
no
longer
, and
hurried
away
to
the
stove
, where
she
filled
a
quart-bowl
with
soup
, putting
into
it
the
lion’s
share
of
chopped
meat
and
vegetables
which
her
ladle
scraped
from
the
bottom
of
the
pot
. Martin
roused
himself
and
sat
up
and
began
to
eat
, between
spoonfuls
reassuring
Maria
that
he
had
not
been
talking
in
his
sleep
and
that
he
did
not
have
any
fever
.
After
she
left
him
he
sat
drearily
, with
drooping
shoulders
, on
the
edge
of
the
bed
, gazing
about
him
with
lack-lustre
eyes
that
saw
nothing
until
the
torn
wrapper
of
a
magazine
, which
had
come
in
the
morning’s
mail
and
which
lay
unopened
, shot
a
gleam
of
light
into
his
darkened
brain
. It
is
_The
Parthenon_
, he
thought
, the
August
_Parthenon_
, and
it
must
contain
“Ephemera
.”
If
only
Brissenden
were
here
to
see
!
He
was
turning
the
pages
of
the
magazine
, when
suddenly
he
stopped
.
“Ephemera”
had
been
featured
, with
gorgeous
head-piece
and
Beardsley-like
margin
decorations
. On
one
side
of
the
head-piece
was
Brissenden’s
photograph
, on
the
other
side
was
the
photograph
of
Sir
John
Value
, the
British
Ambassador
. A
preliminary
editorial
note
quoted
Sir
John
Value
as
saying
that
there
were
no
poets
in
America
, and
the
publication
of
“Ephemera”
was
_The
Parthenon’s_
. “There
, take
that
, Sir
John
Value
!”
Cartwright
Bruce
was
described
as
the
greatest
critic
in
America
, and
he
was
quoted
as
saying
that
“Ephemera”
was
the
greatest
poem
ever
written
in
America
. And
finally
, the
editor’s
foreword
ended
with
: “We
have
not
yet
made
up
our
minds
entirely
as
to
the
merits
of
“Ephemera”
; perhaps
we
shall
never
be
able
to
do
so
. But
we
have
read
it
often
, wondering
at
the
words
and
their
arrangement
, wondering
where
Mr
. Brissenden
got
them
, and
how
he
could
fasten
them
together
.”
Then
followed
the
poem
.
“Pretty
good
thing
you
died
, Briss
, old
man
,”
Martin
murmured
, letting
the
magazine
slip
between
his
knees
to
the
floor
.
The
cheapness
and
vulgarity
of
it
was
nauseating
, and
Martin
noted
apathetically
that
he
was
not
nauseated
very
much
. He
wished
he
could
get
angry
, but
did
not
have
energy
enough
to
try
. He
was
too
numb
. His
blood
was
too
congealed
to
accelerate
to
the
swift
tidal
flow
of
indignation
. After
all
, what
did
it
matter
? It
was
on
a
par
with
all
the
rest
that
Brissenden
had
condemned
in
bourgeois
society
.
“Poor
Briss
,”
Martin
communed
; “he
would
never
have
forgiven
me
.”
Rousing
himself
with
an
effort
, he
possessed
himself
of
a
box
which
had
once
contained
type-writer
paper
. Going
through
its
contents
, he
drew
forth
eleven
poems
which
his
friend
had
written
. These
he
tore
lengthwise
and
crosswise
and
dropped
into
the
waste
basket
. He
did
it
languidly
, and
, when
he
had
finished
, sat
on
the
edge
of
the
bed
staring
blankly
before
him
.
How
long
he
sat
there
he
did
not
know
, until
, suddenly
, across
his
sightless
vision
he
saw
form
a
long
horizontal
line
of
white
. It
was
curious
. But
as
he
watched
it
grow
in
definiteness
he
saw
that
it
was
a
coral
reef
smoking
in
the
white
Pacific
surges
. Next
, in
the
line
of
breakers
he
made
out
a
small
canoe
, an
outrigger
canoe
. In
the
stern
he
saw
a
young
bronzed
god
in
scarlet
hip-cloth
dipping
a
flashing
paddle
.
He
recognized
him
. He
was
Moti
, the
youngest
son
of
Tati
, the
chief
,
and
this
was
Tahiti
, and
beyond
that
smoking
reef
lay
the
sweet
land
of
Papara
and
the
chief’s
grass
house
by
the
river’s
mouth
. It
was
the
end
of
the
day
, and
Moti
was
coming
home
from
the
fishing
. He
was
waiting
for
the
rush
of
a
big
breaker
whereon
to
jump
the
reef
. Then
he
saw
himself
, sitting
forward
in
the
canoe
as
he
had
often
sat
in
the
past
,
dipping
a
paddle
that
waited
Moti’s
word
to
dig
in
like
mad
when
the
turquoise
wall
of
the
great
breaker
rose
behind
them
. Next
, he
was
no
longer
an
onlooker
but
was
himself
in
the
canoe
, Moti
was
crying
out
,
they
were
both
thrusting
hard
with
their
paddles
, racing
on
the
steep
face
of
the
flying
turquoise
. Under
the
bow
the
water
was
hissing
as
from
a
steam
jet
, the
air
was
filled
with
driven
spray
, there
was
a
rush
and
rumble
and
long-echoing
roar
, and
the
canoe
floated
on
the
placid
water
of
the
lagoon
. Moti
laughed
and
shook
the
salt
water
from
his
eyes
, and
together
they
paddled
in
to
the
pounded-coral
beach
where
Tati’s
grass
walls
through
the
cocoanut-palms
showed
golden
in
the
setting
sun
.
The
picture
faded
, and
before
his
eyes
stretched
the
disorder
of
his
squalid
room
. He
strove
in
vain
to
see
Tahiti
again
. He
knew
there
was
singing
among
the
trees
and
that
the
maidens
were
dancing
in
the
moonlight
, but
he
could
not
see
them
. He
could
see
only
the
littered
writing-table
, the
empty
space
where
the
type-writer
had
stood
, and
the
unwashed
window-pane
. He
closed
his
eyes
with
a
groan
, and
slept
.
CHAPTER
XLI
.
He
slept
heavily
all
night
, and
did
not
stir
until
aroused
by
the
postman
on
his
morning
round
. Martin
felt
tired
and
passive
, and
went
through
his
letters
aimlessly
. One
thin
envelope
, from
a
robber
magazine
, contained
a
check
for
twenty-two
dollars
. He
had
been
dunning
for
it
for
a
year
and
a
half
. He
noted
its
amount
apathetically
. The
old-time
thrill
at
receiving
a
publisher’s
check
was
gone
. Unlike
his
earlier
checks
, this
one
was
not
pregnant
with
promise
of
great
things
to
come
. To
him
it
was
a
check
for
twenty-two
dollars
, that
was
all
,
and
it
would
buy
him
something
to
eat
.
Another
check
was
in
the
same
mail
, sent
from
a
New
York
weekly
in
payment
for
some
humorous
verse
which
had
been
accepted
months
before
.
It
was
for
ten
dollars
. An
idea
came
to
him
, which
he
calmly
considered
. He
did
not
know
what
he
was
going
to
do
, and
he
felt
in
no
hurry
to
do
anything
. In
the
meantime
he
must
live
. Also
he
owed
numerous
debts
. Would
it
not
be
a
paying
investment
to
put
stamps
on
the
huge
pile
of
manuscripts
under
the
table
and
start
them
on
their
travels
again
? One
or
two
of
them
might
be
accepted
. That
would
help
him
to
live
. He
decided
on
the
investment
, and
, after
he
had
cashed
the
checks
at
the
bank
down
in
Oakland
, he
bought
ten
dollars’
worth
of
postage
stamps
. The
thought
of
going
home
to
cook
breakfast
in
his
stuffy
little
room
was
repulsive
to
him
. For
the
first
time
he
refused
to
consider
his
debts
. He
knew
that
in
his
room
he
could
manufacture
a
substantial
breakfast
at
a
cost
of
from
fifteen
to
twenty
cents
. But
,
instead
, he
went
into
the
Forum
Café
and
ordered
a
breakfast
that
cost
two
dollars
. He
tipped
the
waiter
a
quarter
, and
spent
fifty
cents
for
a
package
of
Egyptian
cigarettes
. It
was
the
first
time
he
had
smoked
since
Ruth
had
asked
him
to
stop
. But
he
could
see
now
no
reason
why
he
should
not
, and
besides
, he
wanted
to
smoke
. And
what
did
the
money
matter
? For
five
cents
he
could
have
bought
a
package
of
Durham
and
brown
papers
and
rolled
forty
cigarettes—but
what
of
it
? Money
had
no
meaning
to
him
now
except
what
it
would
immediately
buy
. He
was
chartless
and
rudderless
, and
he
had
no
port
to
make
, while
drifting
involved
the
least
living
, and
it
was
living
that
hurt
.
The
days
slipped
along
, and
he
slept
eight
hours
regularly
every
night
.
Though
now
, while
waiting
for
more
checks
, he
ate
in
the
Japanese
restaurants
where
meals
were
served
for
ten
cents
, his
wasted
body
filled
out
, as
did
the
hollows
in
his
cheeks
. He
no
longer
abused
himself
with
short
sleep
, overwork
, and
overstudy
. He
wrote
nothing
,
and
the
books
were
closed
. He
walked
much
, out
in
the
hills
, and
loafed
long
hours
in
the
quiet
parks
. He
had
no
friends
nor
acquaintances
, nor
did
he
make
any
. He
had
no
inclination
. He
was
waiting
for
some
impulse
, from
he
knew
not
where
, to
put
his
stopped
life
into
motion
again
. In
the
meantime
his
life
remained
run
down
, planless
, and
empty
and
idle
.
Once
he
made
a
trip
to
San
Francisco
to
look
up
the
“real
dirt
.”
But
at
the
last
moment
, as
he
stepped
into
the
upstairs
entrance
, he
recoiled
and
turned
and
fled
through
the
swarming
ghetto
. He
was
frightened
at
the
thought
of
hearing
philosophy
discussed
, and
he
fled
furtively
, for
fear
that
some
one
of
the
“real
dirt”
might
chance
along
and
recognize
him
.
Sometimes
he
glanced
over
the
magazines
and
newspapers
to
see
how
“Ephemera”
was
being
maltreated
. It
had
made
a
hit
. But
what
a
hit
!
Everybody
had
read
it
, and
everybody
was
discussing
whether
or
not
it
was
really
poetry
. The
local
papers
had
taken
it
up
, and
daily
there
appeared
columns
of
learned
criticisms
, facetious
editorials
, and
serious
letters
from
subscribers
. Helen
Della
Delmar
(proclaimed
with
a
flourish
of
trumpets
and
rolling
of
tomtoms
to
be
the
greatest
woman
poet
in
the
United
States)
denied
Brissenden
a
seat
beside
her
on
Pegasus
and
wrote
voluminous
letters
to
the
public
, proving
that
he
was
no
poet
.
_The
Parthenon_
came
out
in
its
next
number
patting
itself
on
the
back
for
the
stir
it
had
made
, sneering
at
Sir
John
Value
, and
exploiting
Brissenden’s
death
with
ruthless
commercialism
. A
newspaper
with
a
sworn
circulation
of
half
a
million
published
an
original
and
spontaneous
poem
by
Helen
Della
Delmar
, in
which
she
gibed
and
sneered
at
Brissenden
. Also
, she
was
guilty
of
a
second
poem
, in
which
she
parodied
him
.
Martin
had
many
times
to
be
glad
that
Brissenden
was
dead
. He
had
hated
the
crowd
so
, and
here
all
that
was
finest
and
most
sacred
of
him
had
been
thrown
to
the
crowd
. Daily
the
vivisection
of
Beauty
went
on
.
Every
nincompoop
in
the
land
rushed
into
free
print
, floating
their
wizened
little
egos
into
the
public
eye
on
the
surge
of
Brissenden’s
greatness
. Quoth
one
paper
: “We
have
received
a
letter
from
a
gentleman
who
wrote
a
poem
just
like
it
, only
better
, some
time
ago
.”
Another
paper
, in
deadly
seriousness
, reproving
Helen
Della
Delmar
for
her
parody
, said
: “But
unquestionably
Miss
Delmar
wrote
it
in
a
moment
of
badinage
and
not
quite
with
the
respect
that
one
great
poet
should
show
to
another
and
perhaps
to
the
greatest
. However
, whether
Miss
Delmar
be
jealous
or
not
of
the
man
who
invented
‘Ephemera
,’
it
is
certain
that
she
, like
thousands
of
others
, is
fascinated
by
his
work
, and
that
the
day
may
come
when
she
will
try
to
write
lines
like
his
.”
Ministers
began
to
preach
sermons
against
“Ephemera
,”
and
one
, who
too
stoutly
stood
for
much
of
its
content
, was
expelled
for
heresy
. The
great
poem
contributed
to
the
gayety
of
the
world
. The
comic
verse-writers
and
the
cartoonists
took
hold
of
it
with
screaming
laughter
, and
in
the
personal
columns
of
society
weeklies
jokes
were
perpetrated
on
it
to
the
effect
that
Charley
Frensham
told
Archie
Jennings
, in
confidence
, that
five
lines
of
“Ephemera”
would
drive
a
man
to
beat
a
cripple
, and
that
ten
lines
would
send
him
to
the
bottom
of
the
river
.
Martin
did
not
laugh
; nor
did
he
grit
his
teeth
in
anger
. The
effect
produced
upon
him
was
one
of
great
sadness
. In
the
crash
of
his
whole
world
, with
love
on
the
pinnacle
, the
crash
of
magazinedom
and
the
dear
public
was
a
small
crash
indeed
. Brissenden
had
been
wholly
right
in
his
judgment
of
the
magazines
, and
he
, Martin
, had
spent
arduous
and
futile
years
in
order
to
find
it
out
for
himself
. The
magazines
were
all
Brissenden
had
said
they
were
and
more
. Well
, he
was
done
, he
solaced
himself
. He
had
hitched
his
wagon
to
a
star
and
been
landed
in
a
pestiferous
marsh
. The
visions
of
Tahiti—clean
, sweet
Tahiti—were
coming
to
him
more
frequently
. And
there
were
the
low
Paumotus
, and
the
high
Marquesas
; he
saw
himself
often
, now
, on
board
trading
schooners
or
frail
little
cutters
, slipping
out
at
dawn
through
the
reef
at
Papeete
and
beginning
the
long
beat
through
the
pearl-atolls
to
Nukahiva
and
the
Bay
of
Taiohae
, where
Tamari
, he
knew
, would
kill
a
pig
in
honor
of
his
coming
, and
where
Tamari’s
flower-garlanded
daughters
would
seize
his
hands
and
with
song
and
laughter
garland
him
with
flowers
. The
South
Seas
were
calling
, and
he
knew
that
sooner
or
later
he
would
answer
the
call
.
In
the
meantime
he
drifted
, resting
and
recuperating
after
the
long
traverse
he
had
made
through
the
realm
of
knowledge
. When
_The
Parthenon_
check
of
three
hundred
and
fifty
dollars
was
forwarded
to
him
, he
turned
it
over
to
the
local
lawyer
who
had
attended
to
Brissenden’s
affairs
for
his
family
. Martin
took
a
receipt
for
the
check
, and
at
the
same
time
gave
a
note
for
the
hundred
dollars
Brissenden
had
let
him
have
.
The
time
was
not
long
when
Martin
ceased
patronizing
the
Japanese
restaurants
. At
the
very
moment
when
he
had
abandoned
the
fight
, the
tide
turned
. But
it
had
turned
too
late
. Without
a
thrill
he
opened
a
thick
envelope
from
_The
Millennium_
, scanned
the
face
of
a
check
that
represented
three
hundred
dollars
, and
noted
that
it
was
the
payment
on
acceptance
for
“Adventure
.”
Every
debt
he
owed
in
the
world
, including
the
pawnshop
, with
its
usurious
interest
, amounted
to
less
than
a
hundred
dollars
. And
when
he
had
paid
everything
, and
lifted
the
hundred-dollar
note
with
Brissenden’s
lawyer
, he
still
had
over
a
hundred
dollars
in
pocket
. He
ordered
a
suit
of
clothes
from
the
tailor
and
ate
his
meals
in
the
best
cafés
in
town
. He
still
slept
in
his
little
room
at
Maria’s
, but
the
sight
of
his
new
clothes
caused
the
neighborhood
children
to
cease
from
calling
him
“hobo”
and
“tramp”
from
the
roofs
of
woodsheds
and
over
back
fences
.
“Wiki-Wiki
,”
his
Hawaiian
short
story
, was
bought
by
_Warren’s
Monthly_
for
two
hundred
and
fifty
dollars
. _The
Northern
Review_
took
his
essay
, “The
Cradle
of
Beauty
,”
and
_Mackintosh’s
Magazine_
took
“The
Palmist”—the
poem
he
had
written
to
Marian
. The
editors
and
readers
were
back
from
their
summer
vacations
, and
manuscripts
were
being
handled
quickly
. But
Martin
could
not
puzzle
out
what
strange
whim
animated
them
to
this
general
acceptance
of
the
things
they
had
persistently
rejected
for
two
years
. Nothing
of
his
had
been
published
.
He
was
not
known
anywhere
outside
of
Oakland
, and
in
Oakland
, with
the
few
who
thought
they
knew
him
, he
was
notorious
as
a
red-shirt
and
a
socialist
. So
there
was
no
explaining
this
sudden
acceptability
of
his
wares
. It
was
sheer
jugglery
of
fate
.
After
it
had
been
refused
by
a
number
of
magazines
, he
had
taken
Brissenden’s
rejected
advice
and
started
“The
Shame
of
the
Sun”
on
the
round
of
publishers
. After
several
refusals
, Singletree
, Darnley
&
Co
.
accepted
it
, promising
fall
publication
. When
Martin
asked
for
an
advance
on
royalties
, they
wrote
that
such
was
not
their
custom
, that
books
of
that
nature
rarely
paid
for
themselves
, and
that
they
doubted
if
his
book
would
sell
a
thousand
copies
. Martin
figured
what
the
book
would
earn
him
on
such
a
sale
. Retailed
at
a
dollar
, on
a
royalty
of
fifteen
per
cent
, it
would
bring
him
one
hundred
and
fifty
dollars
. He
decided
that
if
he
had
it
to
do
over
again
he
would
confine
himself
to
fiction
. “Adventure
,”
one-fourth
as
long
, had
brought
him
twice
as
much
from
_The
Millennium_
. That
newspaper
paragraph
he
had
read
so
long
ago
had
been
true
, after
all
. The
first-class
magazines
did
not
pay
on
acceptance
, and
they
paid
well
. Not
two
cents
a
word
, but
four
cents
a
word
, had
_The
Millennium_
paid
him
. And
, furthermore
, they
bought
good
stuff
, too
, for
were
they
not
buying
his
? This
last
thought
he
accompanied
with
a
grin
.
He
wrote
to
Singletree
, Darnley
&
Co
., offering
to
sell
out
his
rights
in
“The
Shame
of
the
Sun”
for
a
hundred
dollars
, but
they
did
not
care
to
take
the
risk
. In
the
meantime
he
was
not
in
need
of
money
, for
several
of
his
later
stories
had
been
accepted
and
paid
for
. He
actually
opened
a
bank
account
, where
, without
a
debt
in
the
world
, he
had
several
hundred
dollars
to
his
credit
. “Overdue
,”
after
having
been
declined
by
a
number
of
magazines
, came
to
rest
at
the
Meredith-Lowell
Company
. Martin
remembered
the
five
dollars
Gertrude
had
given
him
, and
his
resolve
to
return
it
to
her
a
hundred
times
over
; so
he
wrote
for
an
advance
on
royalties
of
five
hundred
dollars
. To
his
surprise
a
check
for
that
amount
, accompanied
by
a
contract
, came
by
return
mail
.
He
cashed
the
check
into
five-dollar
gold
pieces
and
telephoned
Gertrude
that
he
wanted
to
see
her
.
She
arrived
at
the
house
panting
and
short
of
breath
from
the
haste
she
had
made
. Apprehensive
of
trouble
, she
had
stuffed
the
few
dollars
she
possessed
into
her
hand-satchel
; and
so
sure
was
she
that
disaster
had
overtaken
her
brother
, that
she
stumbled
forward
, sobbing
, into
his
arms
, at
the
same
time
thrusting
the
satchel
mutely
at
him
.
“I’d
have
come
myself
,”
he
said
. “But
I
didn’t
want
a
row
with
Mr
.
Higginbotham
, and
that
is
what
would
have
surely
happened
.”
“He’ll
be
all
right
after
a
time
,”
she
assured
him
, while
she
wondered
what
the
trouble
was
that
Martin
was
in
. “But
you’d
best
get
a
job
first
an’
steady
down
. Bernard
does
like
to
see
a
man
at
honest
work
.
That
stuff
in
the
newspapers
broke
’m
all
up
. I
never
saw
’m
so
mad
before
.”
“I’m
not
going
to
get
a
job
,”
Martin
said
with
a
smile
. “And
you
can
tell
him
so
from
me
. I
don’t
need
a
job
, and
there’s
the
proof
of
it
.”
He
emptied
the
hundred
gold
pieces
into
her
lap
in
a
glinting
, tinkling
stream
.
“You
remember
that
fiver
you
gave
me
the
time
I
didn’t
have
carfare
?
Well
, there
it
is
, with
ninety-nine
brothers
of
different
ages
but
all
of
the
same
size
.”
If
Gertrude
had
been
frightened
when
she
arrived
, she
was
now
in
a
panic
of
fear
. Her
fear
was
such
that
it
was
certitude
. She
was
not
suspicious
. She
was
convinced
. She
looked
at
Martin
in
horror
, and
her
heavy
limbs
shrank
under
the
golden
stream
as
though
it
were
burning
her
.
“It’s
yours
,”
he
laughed
.
She
burst
into
tears
, and
began
to
moan
, “My
poor
boy
, my
poor
boy
!”
He
was
puzzled
for
a
moment
. Then
he
divined
the
cause
of
her
agitation
and
handed
her
the
Meredith-Lowell
letter
which
had
accompanied
the
check
. She
stumbled
through
it
, pausing
now
and
again
to
wipe
her
eyes
,
and
when
she
had
finished
, said
:-
“An’
does
it
mean
that
you
come
by
the
money
honestly
?”
“More
honestly
than
if
I’d
won
it
in
a
lottery
. I
earned
it
.”
Slowly
faith
came
back
to
her
, and
she
reread
the
letter
carefully
. It
took
him
long
to
explain
to
her
the
nature
of
the
transaction
which
had
put
the
money
into
his
possession
, and
longer
still
to
get
her
to
understand
that
the
money
was
really
hers
and
that
he
did
not
need
it
.
“I’ll
put
it
in
the
bank
for
you
,”
she
said
finally
.
“You’ll
do
nothing
of
the
sort
. It’s
yours
, to
do
with
as
you
please
,
and
if
you
won’t
take
it
, I’ll
give
it
to
Maria
. She’ll
know
what
to
do
with
it
. I’d
suggest
, though
, that
you
hire
a
servant
and
take
a
good
long
rest
.”
“I’m
goin’
to
tell
Bernard
all
about
it
,”
she
announced
, when
she
was
leaving
.
Martin
winced
, then
grinned
.
“Yes
, do
,”
he
said
. “And
then
, maybe
, he’ll
invite
me
to
dinner
again
.”
“Yes
, he
will—I’m
sure
he
will
!”
she
exclaimed
fervently
, as
she
drew
him
to
her
and
kissed
and
hugged
him
.
CHAPTER
XLII
.
One
day
Martin
became
aware
that
he
was
lonely
. He
was
healthy
and
strong
, and
had
nothing
to
do
. The
cessation
from
writing
and
studying
,
the
death
of
Brissenden
, and
the
estrangement
from
Ruth
had
made
a
big
hole
in
his
life
; and
his
life
refused
to
be
pinned
down
to
good
living
in
cafés
and
the
smoking
of
Egyptian
cigarettes
. It
was
true
the
South
Seas
were
calling
to
him
, but
he
had
a
feeling
that
the
game
was
not
yet
played
out
in
the
United
States
. Two
books
were
soon
to
be
published
, and
he
had
more
books
that
might
find
publication
. Money
could
be
made
out
of
them
, and
he
would
wait
and
take
a
sackful
of
it
into
the
South
Seas
. He
knew
a
valley
and
a
bay
in
the
Marquesas
that
he
could
buy
for
a
thousand
Chili
dollars
. The
valley
ran
from
the
horseshoe
, land-locked
bay
to
the
tops
of
the
dizzy
, cloud-capped
peaks
and
contained
perhaps
ten
thousand
acres
. It
was
filled
with
tropical
fruits
, wild
chickens
, and
wild
pigs
, with
an
occasional
herd
of
wild
cattle
, while
high
up
among
the
peaks
were
herds
of
wild
goats
harried
by
packs
of
wild
dogs
. The
whole
place
was
wild
. Not
a
human
lived
in
it
. And
he
could
buy
it
and
the
bay
for
a
thousand
Chili
dollars
.
The
bay
, as
he
remembered
it
, was
magnificent
, with
water
deep
enough
to
accommodate
the
largest
vessel
afloat
, and
so
safe
that
the
South
Pacific
Directory
recommended
it
as
the
best
careening
place
for
ships
for
hundreds
of
miles
around
. He
would
buy
a
schooner—one
of
those
yacht-like
, coppered
crafts
that
sailed
like
witches—and
go
trading
copra
and
pearling
among
the
islands
. He
would
make
the
valley
and
the
bay
his
headquarters
. He
would
build
a
patriarchal
grass
house
like
Tati’s
, and
have
it
and
the
valley
and
the
schooner
filled
with
dark-skinned
servitors
. He
would
entertain
there
the
factor
of
Taiohae
,
captains
of
wandering
traders
, and
all
the
best
of
the
South
Pacific
riffraff
. He
would
keep
open
house
and
entertain
like
a
prince
. And
he
would
forget
the
books
he
had
opened
and
the
world
that
had
proved
an
illusion
.
To
do
all
this
he
must
wait
in
California
to
fill
the
sack
with
money
.
Already
it
was
beginning
to
flow
in
. If
one
of
the
books
made
a
strike
,
it
might
enable
him
to
sell
the
whole
heap
of
manuscripts
. Also
he
could
collect
the
stories
and
the
poems
into
books
, and
make
sure
of
the
valley
and
the
bay
and
the
schooner
. He
would
never
write
again
.
Upon
that
he
was
resolved
. But
in
the
meantime
, awaiting
the
publication
of
the
books
, he
must
do
something
more
than
live
dazed
and
stupid
in
the
sort
of
uncaring
trance
into
which
he
had
fallen
.
He
noted
, one
Sunday
morning
, that
the
Bricklayers’
Picnic
took
place
that
day
at
Shell
Mound
Park
, and
to
Shell
Mound
Park
he
went
. He
had
been
to
the
working-class
picnics
too
often
in
his
earlier
life
not
to
know
what
they
were
like
, and
as
he
entered
the
park
he
experienced
a
recrudescence
of
all
the
old
sensations
. After
all
, they
were
his
kind
,
these
working
people
. He
had
been
born
among
them
, he
had
lived
among
them
, and
though
he
had
strayed
for
a
time
, it
was
well
to
come
back
among
them
.
“If
it
ain’t
Mart
!”
he
heard
some
one
say
, and
the
next
moment
a
hearty
hand
was
on
his
shoulder
. “Where
you
ben
all
the
time
? Off
to
sea
? Come
on
an’
have
a
drink
.”
It
was
the
old
crowd
in
which
he
found
himself—the
old
crowd
, with
here
and
there
a
gap
, and
here
and
there
a
new
face
. The
fellows
were
not
bricklayers
, but
, as
in
the
old
days
, they
attended
all
Sunday
picnics
for
the
dancing
, and
the
fighting
, and
the
fun
. Martin
drank
with
them
,
and
began
to
feel
really
human
once
more
. He
was
a
fool
to
have
ever
left
them
, he
thought
; and
he
was
very
certain
that
his
sum
of
happiness
would
have
been
greater
had
he
remained
with
them
and
let
alone
the
books
and
the
people
who
sat
in
the
high
places
. Yet
the
beer
seemed
not
so
good
as
of
yore
. It
didn’t
taste
as
it
used
to
taste
.
Brissenden
had
spoiled
him
for
steam
beer
, he
concluded
, and
wondered
if
, after
all
, the
books
had
spoiled
him
for
companionship
with
these
friends
of
his
youth
. He
resolved
that
he
would
not
be
so
spoiled
, and
he
went
on
to
the
dancing
pavilion
. Jimmy
, the
plumber
, he
met
there
,
in
the
company
of
a
tall
, blond
girl
who
promptly
forsook
him
for
Martin
.
“Gee
, it’s
like
old
times
,”
Jimmy
explained
to
the
gang
that
gave
him
the
laugh
as
Martin
and
the
blonde
whirled
away
in
a
waltz
. “An’
I
don’t
give
a
rap
. I’m
too
damned
glad
to
see
’m
back
. Watch
’m
waltz
,
eh
? It’s
like
silk
. Who’d
blame
any
girl
?”
But
Martin
restored
the
blonde
to
Jimmy
, and
the
three
of
them
, with
half
a
dozen
friends
, watched
the
revolving
couples
and
laughed
and
joked
with
one
another
. Everybody
was
glad
to
see
Martin
back
. No
book
of
his
been
published
; he
carried
no
fictitious
value
in
their
eyes
.
They
liked
him
for
himself
. He
felt
like
a
prince
returned
from
excile
,
and
his
lonely
heart
burgeoned
in
the
geniality
in
which
it
bathed
. He
made
a
mad
day
of
it
, and
was
at
his
best
. Also
, he
had
money
in
his
pockets
, and
, as
in
the
old
days
when
he
returned
from
sea
with
a
pay-day
, he
made
the
money
fly
.
Once
, on
the
dancing-floor
, he
saw
Lizzie
Connolly
go
by
in
the
arms
of
a
young
workingman
; and
, later
, when
he
made
the
round
of
the
pavilion
,
he
came
upon
her
sitting
by
a
refreshment
table
. Surprise
and
greetings
over
, he
led
her
away
into
the
grounds
, where
they
could
talk
without
shouting
down
the
music
. From
the
instant
he
spoke
to
her
, she
was
his
.
He
knew
it
. She
showed
it
in
the
proud
humility
of
her
eyes
, in
every
caressing
movement
of
her
proudly
carried
body
, and
in
the
way
she
hung
upon
his
speech
. She
was
not
the
young
girl
as
he
had
known
her
. She
was
a
woman
, now
, and
Martin
noted
that
her
wild
, defiant
beauty
had
improved
, losing
none
of
its
wildness
, while
the
defiance
and
the
fire
seemed
more
in
control
. “A
beauty
, a
perfect
beauty
,”
he
murmured
admiringly
under
his
breath
. And
he
knew
she
was
his
, that
all
he
had
to
do
was
to
say
“Come
,”
and
she
would
go
with
him
over
the
world
wherever
he
led
.
Even
as
the
thought
flashed
through
his
brain
he
received
a
heavy
blow
on
the
side
of
his
head
that
nearly
knocked
him
down
. It
was
a
man’s
fist
, directed
by
a
man
so
angry
and
in
such
haste
that
the
fist
had
missed
the
jaw
for
which
it
was
aimed
. Martin
turned
as
he
staggered
,
and
saw
the
fist
coming
at
him
in
a
wild
swing
. Quite
as
a
matter
of
course
he
ducked
, and
the
fist
flew
harmlessly
past
, pivoting
the
man
who
had
driven
it
. Martin
hooked
with
his
left
, landing
on
the
pivoting
man
with
the
weight
of
his
body
behind
the
blow
. The
man
went
to
the
ground
sidewise
, leaped
to
his
feet
, and
made
a
mad
rush
. Martin
saw
his
passion-distorted
face
and
wondered
what
could
be
the
cause
of
the
fellow’s
anger
. But
while
he
wondered
, he
shot
in
a
straight
left
, the
weight
of
his
body
behind
the
blow
. The
man
went
over
backward
and
fell
in
a
crumpled
heap
. Jimmy
and
others
of
the
gang
were
running
toward
them
.
Martin
was
thrilling
all
over
. This
was
the
old
days
with
a
vengeance
,
with
their
dancing
, and
their
fighting
, and
their
fun
. While
he
kept
a
wary
eye
on
his
antagonist
, he
glanced
at
Lizzie
. Usually
the
girls
screamed
when
the
fellows
got
to
scrapping
, but
she
had
not
screamed
.
She
was
looking
on
with
bated
breath
, leaning
slightly
forward
, so
keen
was
her
interest
, one
hand
pressed
to
her
breast
, her
cheek
flushed
,
and
in
her
eyes
a
great
and
amazed
admiration
.
The
man
had
gained
his
feet
and
was
struggling
to
escape
the
restraining
arms
that
were
laid
on
him
.
“She
was
waitin’
for
me
to
come
back
!”
he
was
proclaiming
to
all
and
sundry
. “She
was
waitin’
for
me
to
come
back
, an’
then
that
fresh
guy
comes
buttin’
in
. Let
go
o’
me
, I
tell
yeh
. I’m
goin’
to
fix
’m
.”
“What’s
eatin’
yer
?”
Jimmy
was
demanding
, as
he
helped
hold
the
young
fellow
back
. “That
guy’s
Mart
Eden
. He’s
nifty
with
his
mits
, lemme
tell
you
that
, an’
he’ll
eat
you
alive
if
you
monkey
with
’m
.”
“He
can’t
steal
her
on
me
that
way
,”
the
other
interjected
.
“He
licked
the
Flyin’
Dutchman
, an’
you
know
_him_
,”
Jimmy
went
on
expostulating
. “An’
he
did
it
in
five
rounds
. You
couldn’t
last
a
minute
against
him
. See
?”
This
information
seemed
to
have
a
mollifying
effect
, and
the
irate
young
man
favored
Martin
with
a
measuring
stare
.
“He
don’t
look
it
,”
he
sneered
; but
the
sneer
was
without
passion
.
“That’s
what
the
Flyin’
Dutchman
thought
,”
Jimmy
assured
him
. “Come
on
,
now
, let’s
get
outa
this
. There’s
lots
of
other
girls
. Come
on
.”
The
young
fellow
allowed
himself
to
be
led
away
toward
the
pavilion
,
and
the
gang
followed
after
him
.
“Who
is
he
?”
Martin
asked
Lizzie
. “And
what’s
it
all
about
, anyway
?”
Already
the
zest
of
combat
, which
of
old
had
been
so
keen
and
lasting
,
had
died
down
, and
he
discovered
that
he
was
self-analytical
, too
much
so
to
live
, single
heart
and
single
hand
, so
primitive
an
existence
.
Lizzie
tossed
her
head
.
“Oh
, he’s
nobody
,”
she
said
. “He’s
just
ben
keepin’
company
with
me
.”
“I
had
to
, you
see
,”
she
explained
after
a
pause
. “I
was
gettin’
pretty
lonesome
. But
I
never
forgot
.”
Her
voice
sank
lower
, and
she
looked
straight
before
her
. “I’d
throw
’m
down
for
you
any
time
.”
Martin
looking
at
her
averted
face
, knowing
that
all
he
had
to
do
was
to
reach
out
his
hand
and
pluck
her
, fell
to
pondering
whether
, after
all
, there
was
any
real
worth
in
refined
, grammatical
English
, and
, so
,
forgot
to
reply
to
her
.
“You
put
it
all
over
him
,”
she
said
tentatively
, with
a
laugh
.
“He’s
a
husky
young
fellow
, though
,”
he
admitted
generously
. “If
they
hadn’t
taken
him
away
, he
might
have
given
me
my
hands
full
.”
“Who
was
that
lady
friend
I
seen
you
with
that
night
?”
she
asked
abruptly
.
“Oh
, just
a
lady
friend
,”
was
his
answer
.
“It
was
a
long
time
ago
,”
she
murmured
contemplatively
. “It
seems
like
a
thousand
years
.”
But
Martin
went
no
further
into
the
matter
. He
led
the
conversation
off
into
other
channels
. They
had
lunch
in
the
restaurant
, where
he
ordered
wine
and
expensive
delicacies
and
afterward
he
danced
with
her
and
with
no
one
but
her
, till
she
was
tired
. He
was
a
good
dancer
, and
she
whirled
around
and
around
with
him
in
a
heaven
of
delight
, her
head
against
his
shoulder
, wishing
that
it
could
last
forever
. Later
in
the
afternoon
they
strayed
off
among
the
trees
, where
, in
the
good
old
fashion
, she
sat
down
while
he
sprawled
on
his
back
, his
head
in
her
lap
. He
lay
and
dozed
, while
she
fondled
his
hair
, looked
down
on
his
closed
eyes
, and
loved
him
without
reserve
. Looking
up
suddenly
, he
read
the
tender
advertisement
in
her
face
. Her
eyes
fluttered
down
,
then
they
opened
and
looked
into
his
with
soft
defiance
.
“I’ve
kept
straight
all
these
years
,”
she
said
, her
voice
so
low
that
it
was
almost
a
whisper
.
In
his
heart
Martin
knew
that
it
was
the
miraculous
truth
. And
at
his
heart
pleaded
a
great
temptation
. It
was
in
his
power
to
make
her
happy
. Denied
happiness
himself
, why
should
he
deny
happiness
to
her
?
He
could
marry
her
and
take
her
down
with
him
to
dwell
in
the
grass-walled
castle
in
the
Marquesas
. The
desire
to
do
it
was
strong
,
but
stronger
still
was
the
imperative
command
of
his
nature
not
to
do
it
. In
spite
of
himself
he
was
still
faithful
to
Love
. The
old
days
of
license
and
easy
living
were
gone
. He
could
not
bring
them
back
, nor
could
he
go
back
to
them
. He
was
changed—how
changed
he
had
not
realized
until
now
.
“I
am
not
a
marrying
man
, Lizzie
,”
he
said
lightly
.
The
hand
caressing
his
hair
paused
perceptibly
, then
went
on
with
the
same
gentle
stroke
. He
noticed
her
face
harden
, but
it
was
with
the
hardness
of
resolution
, for
still
the
soft
color
was
in
her
cheeks
and
she
was
all
glowing
and
melting
.
“I
did
not
mean
that—”
she
began
, then
faltered
. “Or
anyway
I
don’t
care
.”
“I
don’t
care
,”
she
repeated
. “I’m
proud
to
be
your
friend
. I’d
do
anything
for
you
. I’m
made
that
way
, I
guess
.”
Martin
sat
up
. He
took
her
hand
in
his
. He
did
it
deliberately
, with
warmth
but
without
passion
; and
such
warmth
chilled
her
.
“Don’t
let’s
talk
about
it
,”
she
said
.
“You
are
a
great
and
noble
woman
,”
he
said
. “And
it
is
I
who
should
be
proud
to
know
you
. And
I
am
, I
am
. You
are
a
ray
of
light
to
me
in
a
very
dark
world
, and
I’ve
got
to
be
straight
with
you
, just
as
straight
as
you
have
been
.”
“I
don’t
care
whether
you’re
straight
with
me
or
not
. You
could
do
anything
with
me
. You
could
throw
me
in
the
dirt
an’
walk
on
me
. An’
you’re
the
only
man
in
the
world
that
can
,”
she
added
with
a
defiant
flash
. “I
ain’t
taken
care
of
myself
ever
since
I
was
a
kid
for
nothin’
.”
“And
it’s
just
because
of
that
that
I’m
not
going
to
,”
he
said
gently
.
“You
are
so
big
and
generous
that
you
challenge
me
to
equal
generousness
. I’m
not
marrying
, and
I’m
not—well
, loving
without
marrying
, though
I’ve
done
my
share
of
that
in
the
past
. I’m
sorry
I
came
here
to-day
and
met
you
. But
it
can’t
be
helped
now
, and
I
never
expected
it
would
turn
out
this
way
.
“But
look
here
, Lizzie
. I
can’t
begin
to
tell
you
how
much
I
like
you
.
I
do
more
than
like
you
. I
admire
and
respect
you
. You
are
magnificent
,
and
you
are
magnificently
good
. But
what’s
the
use
of
words
? Yet
there’s
something
I’d
like
to
do
. You’ve
had
a
hard
life
; let
me
make
it
easy
for
you
.”
(A
joyous
light
welled
into
her
eyes
, then
faded
out
again
.)
“I’m
pretty
sure
of
getting
hold
of
some
money
soon—lots
of
it
.”
In
that
moment
he
abandoned
the
idea
of
the
valley
and
the
bay
, the
grass-walled
castle
and
the
trim
, white
schooner
. After
all
, what
did
it
matter
? He
could
go
away
, as
he
had
done
so
often
, before
the
mast
,
on
any
ship
bound
anywhere
.
“I’d
like
to
turn
it
over
to
you
. There
must
be
something
you
want—to
go
to
school
or
business
college
. You
might
like
to
study
and
be
a
stenographer
. I
could
fix
it
for
you
. Or
maybe
your
father
and
mother
are
living—I
could
set
them
up
in
a
grocery
store
or
something
.
Anything
you
want
, just
name
it
, and
I
can
fix
it
for
you
.”
She
made
no
reply
, but
sat
, gazing
straight
before
her
, dry-eyed
and
motionless
, but
with
an
ache
in
the
throat
which
Martin
divined
so
strongly
that
it
made
his
own
throat
ache
. He
regretted
that
he
had
spoken
. It
seemed
so
tawdry
what
he
had
offered
her—mere
money—compared
with
what
she
offered
him
. He
offered
her
an
extraneous
thing
with
which
he
could
part
without
a
pang
, while
she
offered
him
herself
,
along
with
disgrace
and
shame
, and
sin
, and
all
her
hopes
of
heaven
.
“Don’t
let’s
talk
about
it
,”
she
said
with
a
catch
in
her
voice
that
she
changed
to
a
cough
. She
stood
up
. “Come
on
, let’s
go
home
. I’m
all
tired
out
.”
The
day
was
done
, and
the
merrymakers
had
nearly
all
departed
. But
as
Martin
and
Lizzie
emerged
from
the
trees
they
found
the
gang
waiting
for
them
. Martin
knew
immediately
the
meaning
of
it
. Trouble
was
brewing
. The
gang
was
his
body-guard
. They
passed
out
through
the
gates
of
the
park
with
, straggling
in
the
rear
, a
second
gang
, the
friends
that
Lizzie’s
young
man
had
collected
to
avenge
the
loss
of
his
lady
.
Several
constables
and
special
police
officers
, anticipating
trouble
,
trailed
along
to
prevent
it
, and
herded
the
two
gangs
separately
aboard
the
train
for
San
Francisco
. Martin
told
Jimmy
that
he
would
get
off
at
Sixteenth
Street
Station
and
catch
the
electric
car
into
Oakland
.
Lizzie
was
very
quiet
and
without
interest
in
what
was
impending
. The
train
pulled
in
to
Sixteenth
Street
Station
, and
the
waiting
electric
car
could
be
seen
, the
conductor
of
which
was
impatiently
clanging
the
gong
.
“There
she
is
,”
Jimmy
counselled
. “Make
a
run
for
it
, an’
we’ll
hold
’em
back
. Now
you
go
! Hit
her
up
!”
The
hostile
gang
was
temporarily
disconcerted
by
the
manoeuvre
, then
it
dashed
from
the
train
in
pursuit
. The
staid
and
sober
Oakland
folk
who
sat
upon
the
car
scarcely
noted
the
young
fellow
and
the
girl
who
ran
for
it
and
found
a
seat
in
front
on
the
outside
. They
did
not
connect
the
couple
with
Jimmy
, who
sprang
on
the
steps
, crying
to
the
motorman
:-
“Slam
on
the
juice
, old
man
, and
beat
it
outa
here
!”
The
next
moment
Jimmy
whirled
about
, and
the
passengers
saw
him
land
his
fist
on
the
face
of
a
running
man
who
was
trying
to
board
the
car
.
But
fists
were
landing
on
faces
the
whole
length
of
the
car
. Thus
,
Jimmy
and
his
gang
, strung
out
on
the
long
, lower
steps
, met
the
attacking
gang
. The
car
started
with
a
great
clanging
of
its
gong
, and
,
as
Jimmy’s
gang
drove
off
the
last
assailants
, they
, too
, jumped
off
to
finish
the
job
. The
car
dashed
on
, leaving
the
flurry
of
combat
far
behind
, and
its
dumfounded
passengers
never
dreamed
that
the
quiet
young
man
and
the
pretty
working-girl
sitting
in
the
corner
on
the
outside
seat
had
been
the
cause
of
the
row
.
Martin
had
enjoyed
the
fight
, with
a
recrudescence
of
the
old
fighting
thrills
. But
they
quickly
died
away
, and
he
was
oppressed
by
a
great
sadness
. He
felt
very
old—centuries
older
than
those
careless
,
care-free
young
companions
of
his
others
days
. He
had
travelled
far
,
too
far
to
go
back
. Their
mode
of
life
, which
had
once
been
his
, was
now
distasteful
to
him
. He
was
disappointed
in
it
all
. He
had
developed
into
an
alien
. As
the
steam
beer
had
tasted
raw
, so
their
companionship
seemed
raw
to
him
. He
was
too
far
removed
. Too
many
thousands
of
opened
books
yawned
between
them
and
him
. He
had
exiled
himself
. He
had
travelled
in
the
vast
realm
of
intellect
until
he
could
no
longer
return
home
. On
the
other
hand
, he
was
human
, and
his
gregarious
need
for
companionship
remained
unsatisfied
. He
had
found
no
new
home
. As
the
gang
could
not
understand
him
, as
his
own
family
could
not
understand
him
, as
the
bourgeoisie
could
not
understand
him
, so
this
girl
beside
him
, whom
he
honored
high
, could
not
understand
him
nor
the
honor
he
paid
her
. His
sadness
was
not
untouched
with
bitterness
as
he
thought
it
over
.
“Make
it
up
with
him
,”
he
advised
Lizzie
, at
parting
, as
they
stood
in
front
of
the
workingman’s
shack
in
which
she
lived
, near
Sixth
and
Market
. He
referred
to
the
young
fellow
whose
place
he
had
usurped
that
day
.
“I
can’t—now
,”
she
said
.
“Oh
, go
on
,”
he
said
jovially
. “All
you
have
to
do
is
whistle
and
he’ll
come
running
.”
“I
didn’t
mean
that
,”
she
said
simply
.
And
he
knew
what
she
had
meant
.
She
leaned
toward
him
as
he
was
about
to
say
good
night
. But
she
leaned
not
imperatively
, not
seductively
, but
wistfully
and
humbly
. He
was
touched
to
the
heart
. His
large
tolerance
rose
up
in
him
. He
put
his
arms
around
her
, and
kissed
her
, and
knew
that
upon
his
own
lips
rested
as
true
a
kiss
as
man
ever
received
.
“My
God
!”
she
sobbed
. “I
could
die
for
you
. I
could
die
for
you
.”
She
tore
herself
from
him
suddenly
and
ran
up
the
steps
. He
felt
a
quick
moisture
in
his
eyes
.
“Martin
Eden
,”
he
communed
. “You’re
not
a
brute
, and
you’re
a
damn
poor
Nietzscheman
. You’d
marry
her
if
you
could
and
fill
her
quivering
heart
full
with
happiness
. But
you
can’t
, you
can’t
. And
it’s
a
damn
shame
.”
“‘A
poor
old
tramp
explains
his
poor
old
ulcers
,’”
he
muttered
,
remembering
his
Henly
. “‘Life
is
, I
think
, a
blunder
and
a
shame
.’
It
is—a
blunder
and
a
shame
.”
CHAPTER
XLIII
.
“The
Shame
of
the
Sun”
was
published
in
October
. As
Martin
cut
the
cords
of
the
express
package
and
the
half-dozen
complimentary
copies
from
the
publishers
spilled
out
on
the
table
, a
heavy
sadness
fell
upon
him
. He
thought
of
the
wild
delight
that
would
have
been
his
had
this
happened
a
few
short
months
before
, and
he
contrasted
that
delight
that
should
have
been
with
his
present
uncaring
coldness
. His
book
, his
first
book
, and
his
pulse
had
not
gone
up
a
fraction
of
a
beat
, and
he
was
only
sad
. It
meant
little
to
him
now
. The
most
it
meant
was
that
it
might
bring
some
money
, and
little
enough
did
he
care
for
money
.
He
carried
a
copy
out
into
the
kitchen
and
presented
it
to
Maria
.
“I
did
it
,”
he
explained
, in
order
to
clear
up
her
bewilderment
. “I
wrote
it
in
the
room
there
, and
I
guess
some
few
quarts
of
your
vegetable
soup
went
into
the
making
of
it
. Keep
it
. It’s
yours
. Just
to
remember
me
by
, you
know
.”
He
was
not
bragging
, not
showing
off
. His
sole
motive
was
to
make
her
happy
, to
make
her
proud
of
him
, to
justify
her
long
faith
in
him
. She
put
the
book
in
the
front
room
on
top
of
the
family
Bible
. A
sacred
thing
was
this
book
her
lodger
had
made
, a
fetich
of
friendship
. It
softened
the
blow
of
his
having
been
a
laundryman
, and
though
she
could
not
understand
a
line
of
it
, she
knew
that
every
line
of
it
was
great
.
She
was
a
simple
, practical
, hard-working
woman
, but
she
possessed
faith
in
large
endowment
.
Just
as
emotionlessly
as
he
had
received
“The
Shame
of
the
Sun”
did
he
read
the
reviews
of
it
that
came
in
weekly
from
the
clipping
bureau
.
The
book
was
making
a
hit
, that
was
evident
. It
meant
more
gold
in
the
money
sack
. He
could
fix
up
Lizzie
, redeem
all
his
promises
, and
still
have
enough
left
to
build
his
grass-walled
castle
.
Singletree
, Darnley
&
Co
. had
cautiously
brought
out
an
edition
of
fifteen
hundred
copies
, but
the
first
reviews
had
started
a
second
edition
of
twice
the
size
through
the
presses
; and
ere
this
was
delivered
a
third
edition
of
five
thousand
had
been
ordered
. A
London
firm
made
arrangements
by
cable
for
an
English
edition
, and
hot-footed
upon
this
came
the
news
of
French
, German
, and
Scandinavian
translations
in
progress
. The
attack
upon
the
Maeterlinck
school
could
not
have
been
made
at
a
more
opportune
moment
. A
fierce
controversy
was
precipitated
. Saleeby
and
Haeckel
indorsed
and
defended
“The
Shame
of
the
Sun
,”
for
once
finding
themselves
on
the
same
side
of
a
question
.
Crookes
and
Wallace
ranged
up
on
the
opposing
side
, while
Sir
Oliver
Lodge
attempted
to
formulate
a
compromise
that
would
jibe
with
his
particular
cosmic
theories
. Maeterlinck’s
followers
rallied
around
the
standard
of
mysticism
. Chesterton
set
the
whole
world
laughing
with
a
series
of
alleged
non-partisan
essays
on
the
subject
, and
the
whole
affair
, controversy
and
controversialists
, was
well-nigh
swept
into
the
pit
by
a
thundering
broadside
from
George
Bernard
Shaw
. Needless
to
say
the
arena
was
crowded
with
hosts
of
lesser
lights
, and
the
dust
and
sweat
and
din
became
terrific
.
“It
is
a
most
marvellous
happening
,”
Singletree
, Darnley
&
Co
. wrote
Martin
, “a
critical
philosophic
essay
selling
like
a
novel
. You
could
not
have
chosen
your
subject
better
, and
all
contributory
factors
have
been
unwarrantedly
propitious
. We
need
scarcely
to
assure
you
that
we
are
making
hay
while
the
sun
shines
. Over
forty
thousand
copies
have
already
been
sold
in
the
United
States
and
Canada
, and
a
new
edition
of
twenty
thousand
is
on
the
presses
. We
are
overworked
, trying
to
supply
the
demand
. Nevertheless
we
have
helped
to
create
that
demand
. We
have
already
spent
five
thousand
dollars
in
advertising
. The
book
is
bound
to
be
a
record-breaker
.”
“Please
find
herewith
a
contract
in
duplicate
for
your
next
book
which
we
have
taken
the
liberty
of
forwarding
to
you
. You
will
please
note
that
we
have
increased
your
royalties
to
twenty
per
cent
, which
is
about
as
high
as
a
conservative
publishing
house
dares
go
. If
our
offer
is
agreeable
to
you
, please
fill
in
the
proper
blank
space
with
the
title
of
your
book
. We
make
no
stipulations
concerning
its
nature
. Any
book
on
any
subject
. If
you
have
one
already
written
, so
much
the
better
. Now
is
the
time
to
strike
. The
iron
could
not
be
hotter
.”
“On
receipt
of
signed
contract
we
shall
be
pleased
to
make
you
an
advance
on
royalties
of
five
thousand
dollars
. You
see
, we
have
faith
in
you
, and
we
are
going
in
on
this
thing
big
. We
should
like
, also
, to
discuss
with
you
the
drawing
up
of
a
contract
for
a
term
of
years
, say
ten
, during
which
we
shall
have
the
exclusive
right
of
publishing
in
book-form
all
that
you
produce
. But
more
of
this
anon
.”
Martin
laid
down
the
letter
and
worked
a
problem
in
mental
arithmetic
,
finding
the
product
of
fifteen
cents
times
sixty
thousand
to
be
nine
thousand
dollars
. He
signed
the
new
contract
, inserting
“The
Smoke
of
Joy”
in
the
blank
space
, and
mailed
it
back
to
the
publishers
along
with
the
twenty
storiettes
he
had
written
in
the
days
before
he
discovered
the
formula
for
the
newspaper
storiette
. And
promptly
as
the
United
States
mail
could
deliver
and
return
, came
Singletree
, Darnley
&
Co
.’s
check
for
five
thousand
dollars
.
“I
want
you
to
come
down
town
with
me
, Maria
, this
afternoon
about
two
o’clock
,”
Martin
said
, the
morning
the
check
arrived
. “Or
, better
, meet
me
at
Fourteenth
and
Broadway
at
two
o’clock
. I’ll
be
looking
out
for
you
.”
At
the
appointed
time
she
was
there
; but
_shoes_
was
the
only
clew
to
the
mystery
her
mind
had
been
capable
of
evolving
, and
she
suffered
a
distinct
shock
of
disappointment
when
Martin
walked
her
right
by
a
shoe-store
and
dived
into
a
real
estate
office
. What
happened
thereupon
resided
forever
after
in
her
memory
as
a
dream
. Fine
gentlemen
smiled
at
her
benevolently
as
they
talked
with
Martin
and
one
another
; a
type-writer
clicked
; signatures
were
affixed
to
an
imposing
document
;
her
own
landlord
was
there
, too
, and
affixed
his
signature
; and
when
all
was
over
and
she
was
outside
on
the
sidewalk
, her
landlord
spoke
to
her
, saying
, “Well
, Maria
, you
won’t
have
to
pay
me
no
seven
dollars
and
a
half
this
month
.”
Maria
was
too
stunned
for
speech
.
“Or
next
month
, or
the
next
, or
the
next
,”
her
landlord
said
.
She
thanked
him
incoherently
, as
if
for
a
favor
. And
it
was
not
until
she
had
returned
home
to
North
Oakland
and
conferred
with
her
own
kind
,
and
had
the
Portuguese
grocer
investigate
, that
she
really
knew
that
she
was
the
owner
of
the
little
house
in
which
she
had
lived
and
for
which
she
had
paid
rent
so
long
.
“Why
don’t
you
trade
with
me
no
more
?”
the
Portuguese
grocer
asked
Martin
that
evening
, stepping
out
to
hail
him
when
he
got
off
the
car
;
and
Martin
explained
that
he
wasn’t
doing
his
own
cooking
any
more
, and
then
went
in
and
had
a
drink
of
wine
on
the
house
. He
noted
it
was
the
best
wine
the
grocer
had
in
stock
.
“Maria
,”
Martin
announced
that
night
, “I’m
going
to
leave
you
. And
you’re
going
to
leave
here
yourself
soon
. Then
you
can
rent
the
house
and
be
a
landlord
yourself
. You’ve
a
brother
in
San
Leandro
or
Haywards
, and
he’s
in
the
milk
business
. I
want
you
to
send
all
your
washing
back
unwashed—understand
?—unwashed
, and
to
go
out
to
San
Leandro
to-morrow
, or
Haywards
, or
wherever
it
is
, and
see
that
brother
of
yours
. Tell
him
to
come
to
see
me
. I’ll
be
stopping
at
the
Metropole
down
in
Oakland
. He’ll
know
a
good
milk-ranch
when
he
sees
one
.”
And
so
it
was
that
Maria
became
a
landlord
and
the
sole
owner
of
a
dairy
, with
two
hired
men
to
do
the
work
for
her
and
a
bank
account
that
steadily
increased
despite
the
fact
that
her
whole
brood
wore
shoes
and
went
to
school
. Few
persons
ever
meet
the
fairy
princes
they
dream
about
; but
Maria
, who
worked
hard
and
whose
head
was
hard
, never
dreaming
about
fairy
princes
, entertained
hers
in
the
guise
of
an
ex-laundryman
.
In
the
meantime
the
world
had
begun
to
ask
: “Who
is
this
Martin
Eden
?”
He
had
declined
to
give
any
biographical
data
to
his
publishers
, but
the
newspapers
were
not
to
be
denied
. Oakland
was
his
own
town
, and
the
reporters
nosed
out
scores
of
individuals
who
could
supply
information
.
All
that
he
was
and
was
not
, all
that
he
had
done
and
most
of
what
he
had
not
done
, was
spread
out
for
the
delectation
of
the
public
,
accompanied
by
snapshots
and
photographs—the
latter
procured
from
the
local
photographer
who
had
once
taken
Martin’s
picture
and
who
promptly
copyrighted
it
and
put
it
on
the
market
. At
first
, so
great
was
his
disgust
with
the
magazines
and
all
bourgeois
society
, Martin
fought
against
publicity
; but
in
the
end
, because
it
was
easier
than
not
to
,
he
surrendered
. He
found
that
he
could
not
refuse
himself
to
the
special
writers
who
travelled
long
distances
to
see
him
. Then
again
,
each
day
was
so
many
hours
long
, and
, since
he
no
longer
was
occupied
with
writing
and
studying
, those
hours
had
to
be
occupied
somehow
; so
he
yielded
to
what
was
to
him
a
whim
, permitted
interviews
, gave
his
opinions
on
literature
and
philosophy
, and
even
accepted
invitations
of
the
bourgeoisie
. He
had
settled
down
into
a
strange
and
comfortable
state
of
mind
. He
no
longer
cared
. He
forgave
everybody
, even
the
cub
reporter
who
had
painted
him
red
and
to
whom
he
now
granted
a
full
page
with
specially
posed
photographs
.
He
saw
Lizzie
occasionally
, and
it
was
patent
that
she
regretted
the
greatness
that
had
come
to
him
. It
widened
the
space
between
them
.
Perhaps
it
was
with
the
hope
of
narrowing
it
that
she
yielded
to
his
persuasions
to
go
to
night
school
and
business
college
and
to
have
herself
gowned
by
a
wonderful
dressmaker
who
charged
outrageous
prices
.
She
improved
visibly
from
day
to
day
, until
Martin
wondered
if
he
was
doing
right
, for
he
knew
that
all
her
compliance
and
endeavor
was
for
his
sake
. She
was
trying
to
make
herself
of
worth
in
his
eyes—of
the
sort
of
worth
he
seemed
to
value
. Yet
he
gave
her
no
hope
, treating
her
in
brotherly
fashion
and
rarely
seeing
her
.
“Overdue”
was
rushed
upon
the
market
by
the
Meredith-Lowell
Company
in
the
height
of
his
popularity
, and
being
fiction
, in
point
of
sales
it
made
even
a
bigger
strike
than
“The
Shame
of
the
Sun
.”
Week
after
week
his
was
the
credit
of
the
unprecedented
performance
of
having
two
books
at
the
head
of
the
list
of
best-sellers
. Not
only
did
the
story
take
with
the
fiction-readers
, but
those
who
read
“The
Shame
of
the
Sun”
with
avidity
were
likewise
attracted
to
the
sea-story
by
the
cosmic
grasp
of
mastery
with
which
he
had
handled
it
. First
he
had
attacked
the
literature
of
mysticism
, and
had
done
it
exceeding
well
; and
, next
,
he
had
successfully
supplied
the
very
literature
he
had
exposited
, thus
proving
himself
to
be
that
rare
genius
, a
critic
and
a
creator
in
one
.
Money
poured
in
on
him
, fame
poured
in
on
him
; he
flashed
, comet-like
,
through
the
world
of
literature
, and
he
was
more
amused
than
interested
by
the
stir
he
was
making
. One
thing
was
puzzling
him
, a
little
thing
that
would
have
puzzled
the
world
had
it
known
. But
the
world
would
have
puzzled
over
his
bepuzzlement
rather
than
over
the
little
thing
that
to
him
loomed
gigantic
. Judge
Blount
invited
him
to
dinner
. That
was
the
little
thing
, or
the
beginning
of
the
little
thing
, that
was
soon
to
become
the
big
thing
. He
had
insulted
Judge
Blount
, treated
him
abominably
, and
Judge
Blount
, meeting
him
on
the
street
, invited
him
to
dinner
. Martin
bethought
himself
of
the
numerous
occasions
on
which
he
had
met
Judge
Blount
at
the
Morses’
and
when
Judge
Blount
had
not
invited
him
to
dinner
. Why
had
he
not
invited
him
to
dinner
then
? he
asked
himself
. He
had
not
changed
. He
was
the
same
Martin
Eden
. What
made
the
difference
? The
fact
that
the
stuff
he
had
written
had
appeared
inside
the
covers
of
books
? But
it
was
work
performed
. It
was
not
something
he
had
done
since
. It
was
achievement
accomplished
at
the
very
time
Judge
Blount
was
sharing
this
general
view
and
sneering
at
his
Spencer
and
his
intellect
. Therefore
it
was
not
for
any
real
value
,
but
for
a
purely
fictitious
value
that
Judge
Blount
invited
him
to
dinner
.
Martin
grinned
and
accepted
the
invitation
, marvelling
the
while
at
his
complacence
. And
at
the
dinner
, where
, with
their
womankind
, were
half
a
dozen
of
those
that
sat
in
high
places
, and
where
Martin
found
himself
quite
the
lion
, Judge
Blount
, warmly
seconded
by
Judge
Hanwell
,
urged
privately
that
Martin
should
permit
his
name
to
be
put
up
for
the
Styx—the
ultra-select
club
to
which
belonged
, not
the
mere
men
of
wealth
, but
the
men
of
attainment
. And
Martin
declined
, and
was
more
puzzled
than
ever
.
He
was
kept
busy
disposing
of
his
heap
of
manuscripts
. He
was
overwhelmed
by
requests
from
editors
. It
had
been
discovered
that
he
was
a
stylist
, with
meat
under
his
style
. _The
Northern
Review_
, after
publishing
“The
Cradle
of
Beauty
,”
had
written
him
for
half
a
dozen
similar
essays
, which
would
have
been
supplied
out
of
the
heap
, had
not
_Burton’s
Magazine_
, in
a
speculative
mood
, offered
him
five
hundred
dollars
each
for
five
essays
. He
wrote
back
that
he
would
supply
the
demand
, but
at
a
thousand
dollars
an
essay
. He
remembered
that
all
these
manuscripts
had
been
refused
by
the
very
magazines
that
were
now
clamoring
for
them
. And
their
refusals
had
been
cold-blooded
,
automatic
, stereotyped
. They
had
made
him
sweat
, and
now
he
intended
to
make
them
sweat
. _Burton’s
Magazine_
paid
his
price
for
five
essays
,
and
the
remaining
four
, at
the
same
rate
, were
snapped
up
by
_Mackintosh’s
Monthly
, The
Northern
Review_
being
too
poor
to
stand
the
pace
. Thus
went
out
to
the
world
“The
High
Priests
of
Mystery
,”
“The
Wonder-Dreamers
,”
“The
Yardstick
of
the
Ego
,”
“Philosophy
of
Illusion
,”
“God
and
Clod
,”
“Art
and
Biology
,”
“Critics
and
Test-tubes
,”
“Star-dust
,”
and
“The
Dignity
of
Usury
,”—to
raise
storms
and
rumblings
and
mutterings
that
were
many
a
day
in
dying
down
.
Editors
wrote
to
him
telling
him
to
name
his
own
terms
, which
he
did
,
but
it
was
always
for
work
performed
. He
refused
resolutely
to
pledge
himself
to
any
new
thing
. The
thought
of
again
setting
pen
to
paper
maddened
him
. He
had
seen
Brissenden
torn
to
pieces
by
the
crowd
, and
despite
the
fact
that
him
the
crowd
acclaimed
, he
could
not
get
over
the
shock
nor
gather
any
respect
for
the
crowd
. His
very
popularity
seemed
a
disgrace
and
a
treason
to
Brissenden
. It
made
him
wince
, but
he
made
up
his
mind
to
go
on
and
fill
the
money-bag
.
He
received
letters
from
editors
like
the
following
: “About
a
year
ago
we
were
unfortunate
enough
to
refuse
your
collection
of
love-poems
. We
were
greatly
impressed
by
them
at
the
time
, but
certain
arrangements
already
entered
into
prevented
our
taking
them
. If
you
still
have
them
,
and
if
you
will
be
kind
enough
to
forward
them
, we
shall
be
glad
to
publish
the
entire
collection
on
your
own
terms
. We
are
also
prepared
to
make
a
most
advantageous
offer
for
bringing
them
out
in
book-form
.”
Martin
recollected
his
blank-verse
tragedy
, and
sent
it
instead
. He
read
it
over
before
mailing
, and
was
particularly
impressed
by
its
sophomoric
amateurishness
and
general
worthlessness
. But
he
sent
it
;
and
it
was
published
, to
the
everlasting
regret
of
the
editor
. The
public
was
indignant
and
incredulous
. It
was
too
far
a
cry
from
Martin
Eden’s
high
standard
to
that
serious
bosh
. It
was
asserted
that
he
had
never
written
it
, that
the
magazine
had
faked
it
very
clumsily
, or
that
Martin
Eden
was
emulating
the
elder
Dumas
and
at
the
height
of
success
was
hiring
his
writing
done
for
him
. But
when
he
explained
that
the
tragedy
was
an
early
effort
of
his
literary
childhood
, and
that
the
magazine
had
refused
to
be
happy
unless
it
got
it
, a
great
laugh
went
up
at
the
magazine’s
expense
and
a
change
in
the
editorship
followed
.
The
tragedy
was
never
brought
out
in
book-form
, though
Martin
pocketed
the
advance
royalties
that
had
been
paid
.
_Coleman’s
Weekly_
sent
Martin
a
lengthy
telegram
, costing
nearly
three
hundred
dollars
, offering
him
a
thousand
dollars
an
article
for
twenty
articles
. He
was
to
travel
over
the
United
States
, with
all
expenses
paid
, and
select
whatever
topics
interested
him
. The
body
of
the
telegram
was
devoted
to
hypothetical
topics
in
order
to
show
him
the
freedom
of
range
that
was
to
be
his
. The
only
restriction
placed
upon
him
was
that
he
must
confine
himself
to
the
United
States
. Martin
sent
his
inability
to
accept
and
his
regrets
by
wire
“collect
.”
“Wiki-Wiki
,”
published
in
_Warren’s
Monthly_
, was
an
instantaneous
success
. It
was
brought
out
forward
in
a
wide-margined
, beautifully
decorated
volume
that
struck
the
holiday
trade
and
sold
like
wildfire
.
The
critics
were
unanimous
in
the
belief
that
it
would
take
its
place
with
those
two
classics
by
two
great
writers
, “The
Bottle
Imp”
and
“The
Magic
Skin
.”
The
public
, however
, received
the
“Smoke
of
Joy”
collection
rather
dubiously
and
coldly
. The
audacity
and
unconventionality
of
the
storiettes
was
a
shock
to
bourgeois
morality
and
prejudice
; but
when
Paris
went
mad
over
the
immediate
translation
that
was
made
, the
American
and
English
reading
public
followed
suit
and
bought
so
many
copies
that
Martin
compelled
the
conservative
house
of
Singletree
,
Darnley
&
Co
. to
pay
a
flat
royalty
of
twenty-five
per
cent
for
a
third
book
, and
thirty
per
cent
flat
for
a
fourth
. These
two
volumes
comprised
all
the
short
stories
he
had
written
and
which
had
received
,
or
were
receiving
, serial
publication
. “The
Ring
of
Bells”
and
his
horror
stories
constituted
one
collection
; the
other
collection
was
composed
of
“Adventure
,”
“The
Pot
,”
“The
Wine
of
Life
,”
“The
Whirlpool
,”
“The
Jostling
Street
,”
and
four
other
stories
. The
Lowell-Meredith
Company
captured
the
collection
of
all
his
essays
, and
the
Maxmillian
Company
got
his
“Sea
Lyrics”
and
the
“Love-cycle
,”
the
latter
receiving
serial
publication
in
the
_Ladies’
Home
Companion_
after
the
payment
of
an
extortionate
price
.
Martin
heaved
a
sigh
of
relief
when
he
had
disposed
of
the
last
manuscript
. The
grass-walled
castle
and
the
white
, coppered
schooner
were
very
near
to
him
. Well
, at
any
rate
he
had
discovered
Brissenden’s
contention
that
nothing
of
merit
found
its
way
into
the
magazines
. His
own
success
demonstrated
that
Brissenden
had
been
wrong
.
And
yet
, somehow
, he
had
a
feeling
that
Brissenden
had
been
right
,
after
all
. “The
Shame
of
the
Sun”
had
been
the
cause
of
his
success
more
than
the
stuff
he
had
written
. That
stuff
had
been
merely
incidental
. It
had
been
rejected
right
and
left
by
the
magazines
. The
publication
of
“The
Shame
of
the
Sun”
had
started
a
controversy
and
precipitated
the
landslide
in
his
favor
. Had
there
been
no
“Shame
of
the
Sun”
there
would
have
been
no
landslide
, and
had
there
been
no
miracle
in
the
go
of
“The
Shame
of
the
Sun”
there
would
have
been
no
landslide
. Singletree
, Darnley
&
Co
. attested
that
miracle
. They
had
brought
out
a
first
edition
of
fifteen
hundred
copies
and
been
dubious
of
selling
it
. They
were
experienced
publishers
and
no
one
had
been
more
astounded
than
they
at
the
success
which
had
followed
. To
them
it
had
been
in
truth
a
miracle
. They
never
got
over
it
, and
every
letter
they
wrote
him
reflected
their
reverent
awe
of
that
first
mysterious
happening
. They
did
not
attempt
to
explain
it
. There
was
no
explaining
it
. It
had
happened
. In
the
face
of
all
experience
to
the
contrary
, it
had
happened
.
So
it
was
, reasoning
thus
, that
Martin
questioned
the
validity
of
his
popularity
. It
was
the
bourgeoisie
that
bought
his
books
and
poured
its
gold
into
his
money-sack
, and
from
what
little
he
knew
of
the
bourgeoisie
it
was
not
clear
to
him
how
it
could
possibly
appreciate
or
comprehend
what
he
had
written
. His
intrinsic
beauty
and
power
meant
nothing
to
the
hundreds
of
thousands
who
were
acclaiming
him
and
buying
his
books
. He
was
the
fad
of
the
hour
, the
adventurer
who
had
stormed
Parnassus
while
the
gods
nodded
. The
hundreds
of
thousands
read
him
and
acclaimed
him
with
the
same
brute
non-understanding
with
which
they
had
flung
themselves
on
Brissenden’s
“Ephemera”
and
torn
it
to
pieces—a
wolf-rabble
that
fawned
on
him
instead
of
fanging
him
. Fawn
or
fang
, it
was
all
a
matter
of
chance
. One
thing
he
knew
with
absolute
certitude
:
“Ephemera”
was
infinitely
greater
than
anything
he
had
done
. It
was
infinitely
greater
than
anything
he
had
in
him
. It
was
a
poem
of
centuries
. Then
the
tribute
the
mob
paid
him
was
a
sorry
tribute
indeed
, for
that
same
mob
had
wallowed
“Ephemera”
into
the
mire
. He
sighed
heavily
and
with
satisfaction
. He
was
glad
the
last
manuscript
was
sold
and
that
he
would
soon
be
done
with
it
all
.
CHAPTER
XLIV
.
Mr
. Morse
met
Martin
in
the
office
of
the
Hotel
Metropole
. Whether
he
had
happened
there
just
casually
, intent
on
other
affairs
, or
whether
he
had
come
there
for
the
direct
purpose
of
inviting
him
to
dinner
,
Martin
never
could
quite
make
up
his
mind
, though
he
inclined
toward
the
second
hypothesis
. At
any
rate
, invited
to
dinner
he
was
by
Mr
.
Morse—Ruth’s
father
, who
had
forbidden
him
the
house
and
broken
off
the
engagement
.
Martin
was
not
angry
. He
was
not
even
on
his
dignity
. He
tolerated
Mr
.
Morse
, wondering
the
while
how
it
felt
to
eat
such
humble
pie
. He
did
not
decline
the
invitation
. Instead
, he
put
it
off
with
vagueness
and
indefiniteness
and
inquired
after
the
family
, particularly
after
Mrs
.
Morse
and
Ruth
. He
spoke
her
name
without
hesitancy
, naturally
, though
secretly
surprised
that
he
had
had
no
inward
quiver
, no
old
, familiar
increase
of
pulse
and
warm
surge
of
blood
.
He
had
many
invitations
to
dinner
, some
of
which
he
accepted
. Persons
got
themselves
introduced
to
him
in
order
to
invite
him
to
dinner
. And
he
went
on
puzzling
over
the
little
thing
that
was
becoming
a
great
thing
. Bernard
Higginbotham
invited
him
to
dinner
. He
puzzled
the
harder
. He
remembered
the
days
of
his
desperate
starvation
when
no
one
invited
him
to
dinner
. That
was
the
time
he
needed
dinners
, and
went
weak
and
faint
for
lack
of
them
and
lost
weight
from
sheer
famine
. That
was
the
paradox
of
it
. When
he
wanted
dinners
, no
one
gave
them
to
him
,
and
now
that
he
could
buy
a
hundred
thousand
dinners
and
was
losing
his
appetite
, dinners
were
thrust
upon
him
right
and
left
. But
why
? There
was
no
justice
in
it
, no
merit
on
his
part
. He
was
no
different
. All
the
work
he
had
done
was
even
at
that
time
work
performed
. Mr
. and
Mrs
.
Morse
had
condemned
him
for
an
idler
and
a
shirk
and
through
Ruth
had
urged
that
he
take
a
clerk’s
position
in
an
office
. Furthermore
, they
had
been
aware
of
his
work
performed
. Manuscript
after
manuscript
of
his
had
been
turned
over
to
them
by
Ruth
. They
had
read
them
. It
was
the
very
same
work
that
had
put
his
name
in
all
the
papers
, and
, it
was
his
name
being
in
all
the
papers
that
led
them
to
invite
him
.
One
thing
was
certain
: the
Morses
had
not
cared
to
have
him
for
himself
or
for
his
work
. Therefore
they
could
not
want
him
now
for
himself
or
for
his
work
, but
for
the
fame
that
was
his
, because
he
was
somebody
amongst
men
, and—why
not
?—because
he
had
a
hundred
thousand
dollars
or
so
. That
was
the
way
bourgeois
society
valued
a
man
, and
who
was
he
to
expect
it
otherwise
? But
he
was
proud
. He
disdained
such
valuation
. He
desired
to
be
valued
for
himself
, or
for
his
work
, which
, after
all
,
was
an
expression
of
himself
. That
was
the
way
Lizzie
valued
him
. The
work
, with
her
, did
not
even
count
. She
valued
him
, himself
. That
was
the
way
Jimmy
, the
plumber
, and
all
the
old
gang
valued
him
. That
had
been
proved
often
enough
in
the
days
when
he
ran
with
them
; it
had
been
proved
that
Sunday
at
Shell
Mound
Park
. His
work
could
go
hang
. What
they
liked
, and
were
willing
to
scrap
for
, was
just
Mart
Eden
, one
of
the
bunch
and
a
pretty
good
guy
.
Then
there
was
Ruth
. She
had
liked
him
for
himself
, that
was
indisputable
. And
yet
, much
as
she
had
liked
him
she
had
liked
the
bourgeois
standard
of
valuation
more
. She
had
opposed
his
writing
, and
principally
, it
seemed
to
him
, because
it
did
not
earn
money
. That
had
been
her
criticism
of
his
“Love-cycle
.”
She
, too
, had
urged
him
to
get
a
job
. It
was
true
, she
refined
it
to
“position
,”
but
it
meant
the
same
thing
, and
in
his
own
mind
the
old
nomenclature
stuck
. He
had
read
her
all
that
he
wrote—poems
, stories
, essays—“Wiki-Wiki
,”
“The
Shame
of
the
Sun
,”
everything
. And
she
had
always
and
consistently
urged
him
to
get
a
job
, to
go
to
work—good
God
!—as
if
he
hadn’t
been
working
, robbing
sleep
, exhausting
life
, in
order
to
be
worthy
of
her
.
So
the
little
thing
grew
bigger
. He
was
healthy
and
normal
, ate
regularly
, slept
long
hours
, and
yet
the
growing
little
thing
was
becoming
an
obsession
. _Work
performed_
. The
phrase
haunted
his
brain
.
He
sat
opposite
Bernard
Higginbotham
at
a
heavy
Sunday
dinner
over
Higginbotham’s
Cash
Store
, and
it
was
all
he
could
do
to
restrain
himself
from
shouting
out
:-
“It
was
work
performed
! And
now
you
feed
me
, when
then
you
let
me
starve
, forbade
me
your
house
, and
damned
me
because
I
wouldn’t
get
a
job
. And
the
work
was
already
done
, all
done
. And
now
, when
I
speak
,
you
check
the
thought
unuttered
on
your
lips
and
hang
on
my
lips
and
pay
respectful
attention
to
whatever
I
choose
to
say
. I
tell
you
your
party
is
rotten
and
filled
with
grafters
, and
instead
of
flying
into
a
rage
you
hum
and
haw
and
admit
there
is
a
great
deal
in
what
I
say
. And
why
? Because
I’m
famous
; because
I’ve
a
lot
of
money
. Not
because
I’m
Martin
Eden
, a
pretty
good
fellow
and
not
particularly
a
fool
. I
could
tell
you
the
moon
is
made
of
green
cheese
and
you
would
subscribe
to
the
notion
, at
least
you
would
not
repudiate
it
, because
I’ve
got
dollars
, mountains
of
them
. And
it
was
all
done
long
ago
; it
was
work
performed
, I
tell
you
, when
you
spat
upon
me
as
the
dirt
under
your
feet
.”
But
Martin
did
not
shout
out
. The
thought
gnawed
in
his
brain
, an
unceasing
torment
, while
he
smiled
and
succeeded
in
being
tolerant
. As
he
grew
silent
, Bernard
Higginbotham
got
the
reins
and
did
the
talking
.
He
was
a
success
himself
, and
proud
of
it
. He
was
self-made
. No
one
had
helped
him
. He
owed
no
man
. He
was
fulfilling
his
duty
as
a
citizen
and
bringing
up
a
large
family
. And
there
was
Higginbotham’s
Cash
Store
,
that
monument
of
his
own
industry
and
ability
. He
loved
Higginbotham’s
Cash
Store
as
some
men
loved
their
wives
. He
opened
up
his
heart
to
Martin
, showed
with
what
keenness
and
with
what
enormous
planning
he
had
made
the
store
. And
he
had
plans
for
it
, ambitious
plans
. The
neighborhood
was
growing
up
fast
. The
store
was
really
too
small
. If
he
had
more
room
, he
would
be
able
to
put
in
a
score
of
labor-saving
and
money-saving
improvements
. And
he
would
do
it
yet
. He
was
straining
every
effort
for
the
day
when
he
could
buy
the
adjoining
lot
and
put
up
another
two-story
frame
building
. The
upstairs
he
could
rent
, and
the
whole
ground-floor
of
both
buildings
would
be
Higginbotham’s
Cash
Store
. His
eyes
glistened
when
he
spoke
of
the
new
sign
that
would
stretch
clear
across
both
buildings
.
Martin
forgot
to
listen
. The
refrain
of
“Work
performed
,”
in
his
own
brain
, was
drowning
the
other’s
clatter
. The
refrain
maddened
him
, and
he
tried
to
escape
from
it
.
“How
much
did
you
say
it
would
cost
?”
he
asked
suddenly
.
His
brother-in-law
paused
in
the
middle
of
an
expatiation
on
the
business
opportunities
of
the
neighborhood
. He
hadn’t
said
how
much
it
would
cost
. But
he
knew
. He
had
figured
it
out
a
score
of
times
.
“At
the
way
lumber
is
now
,”
he
said
, “four
thousand
could
do
it
.”
“Including
the
sign
?”
“I
didn’t
count
on
that
. It’d
just
have
to
come
, onc’t
the
buildin’
was
there
.”
“And
the
ground
?”
“Three
thousand
more
.”
He
leaned
forward
, licking
his
lips
, nervously
spreading
and
closing
his
fingers
, while
he
watched
Martin
write
a
check
. When
it
was
passed
over
to
him
, he
glanced
at
the
amount-seven
thousand
dollars
.
“I—I
can’t
afford
to
pay
more
than
six
per
cent
,”
he
said
huskily
.
Martin
wanted
to
laugh
, but
, instead
, demanded
:-
“How
much
would
that
be
?”
“Lemme
see
. Six
per
cent—six
times
seven—four
hundred
an’
twenty
.”
“That
would
be
thirty-five
dollars
a
month
, wouldn’t
it
?”
Higginbotham
nodded
.
“Then
, if
you’ve
no
objection
, we’ll
arrange
it
this
way
.”
Martin
glanced
at
Gertrude
. “You
can
have
the
principal
to
keep
for
yourself
,
if
you’ll
use
the
thirty-five
dollars
a
month
for
cooking
and
washing
and
scrubbing
. The
seven
thousand
is
yours
if
you’ll
guarantee
that
Gertrude
does
no
more
drudgery
. Is
it
a
go
?”
Mr
. Higginbotham
swallowed
hard
. That
his
wife
should
do
no
more
housework
was
an
affront
to
his
thrifty
soul
. The
magnificent
present
was
the
coating
of
a
pill
, a
bitter
pill
. That
his
wife
should
not
work
! It
gagged
him
.
“All
right
, then
,”
Martin
said
. “I’ll
pay
the
thirty-five
a
month
,
and—”
He
reached
across
the
table
for
the
check
. But
Bernard
Higginbotham
got
his
hand
on
it
first
, crying
:
“I
accept
! I
accept
!”
When
Martin
got
on
the
electric
car
, he
was
very
sick
and
tired
. He
looked
up
at
the
assertive
sign
.
“The
swine
,”
he
groaned
. “The
swine
, the
swine
.”
When
_Mackintosh’s
Magazine_
published
“The
Palmist
,”
featuring
it
with
decorations
by
Berthier
and
with
two
pictures
by
Wenn
, Hermann
von
Schmidt
forgot
that
he
had
called
the
verses
obscene
. He
announced
that
his
wife
had
inspired
the
poem
, saw
to
it
that
the
news
reached
the
ears
of
a
reporter
, and
submitted
to
an
interview
by
a
staff
writer
who
was
accompanied
by
a
staff
photographer
and
a
staff
artist
. The
result
was
a
full
page
in
a
Sunday
supplement
, filled
with
photographs
and
idealized
drawings
of
Marian
, with
many
intimate
details
of
Martin
Eden
and
his
family
, and
with
the
full
text
of
“The
Palmist”
in
large
type
,
and
republished
by
special
permission
of
_Mackintosh’s
Magazine_
. It
caused
quite
a
stir
in
the
neighborhood
, and
good
housewives
were
proud
to
have
the
acquaintances
of
the
great
writer’s
sister
, while
those
who
had
not
made
haste
to
cultivate
it
. Hermann
von
Schmidt
chuckled
in
his
little
repair
shop
and
decided
to
order
a
new
lathe
. “Better
than
advertising
,”
he
told
Marian
, “and
it
costs
nothing
.”
“We’d
better
have
him
to
dinner
,”
she
suggested
.
And
to
dinner
Martin
came
, making
himself
agreeable
with
the
fat
wholesale
butcher
and
his
fatter
wife—important
folk
, they
, likely
to
be
of
use
to
a
rising
young
man
like
Hermann
von
Schmidt
. No
less
a
bait
, however
, had
been
required
to
draw
them
to
his
house
than
his
great
brother-in-law
. Another
man
at
table
who
had
swallowed
the
same
bait
was
the
superintendent
of
the
Pacific
Coast
agencies
for
the
Asa
Bicycle
Company
. Him
Von
Schmidt
desired
to
please
and
propitiate
because
from
him
could
be
obtained
the
Oakland
agency
for
the
bicycle
.
So
Hermann
von
Schmidt
found
it
a
goodly
asset
to
have
Martin
for
a
brother-in-law
, but
in
his
heart
of
hearts
he
couldn’t
understand
where
it
all
came
in
. In
the
silent
watches
of
the
night
, while
his
wife
slept
, he
had
floundered
through
Martin’s
books
and
poems
, and
decided
that
the
world
was
a
fool
to
buy
them
.
And
in
his
heart
of
hearts
Martin
understood
the
situation
only
too
well
, as
he
leaned
back
and
gloated
at
Von
Schmidt’s
head
, in
fancy
punching
it
well-nigh
off
of
him
, sending
blow
after
blow
home
just
right—the
chuckle-headed
Dutchman
! One
thing
he
did
like
about
him
,
however
. Poor
as
he
was
, and
determined
to
rise
as
he
was
, he
nevertheless
hired
one
servant
to
take
the
heavy
work
off
of
Marian’s
hands
. Martin
talked
with
the
superintendent
of
the
Asa
agencies
, and
after
dinner
he
drew
him
aside
with
Hermann
, whom
he
backed
financially
for
the
best
bicycle
store
with
fittings
in
Oakland
. He
went
further
,
and
in
a
private
talk
with
Hermann
told
him
to
keep
his
eyes
open
for
an
automobile
agency
and
garage
, for
there
was
no
reason
that
he
should
not
be
able
to
run
both
establishments
successfully
.
With
tears
in
her
eyes
and
her
arms
around
his
neck
, Marian
, at
parting
, told
Martin
how
much
she
loved
him
and
always
had
loved
him
.
It
was
true
, there
was
a
perceptible
halt
midway
in
her
assertion
,
which
she
glossed
over
with
more
tears
and
kisses
and
incoherent
stammerings
, and
which
Martin
inferred
to
be
her
appeal
for
forgiveness
for
the
time
she
had
lacked
faith
in
him
and
insisted
on
his
getting
a
job
.
“He
can’t
never
keep
his
money
, that’s
sure
,”
Hermann
von
Schmidt
confided
to
his
wife
. “He
got
mad
when
I
spoke
of
interest
, an’
he
said
damn
the
principal
and
if
I
mentioned
it
again
, he’d
punch
my
Dutch
head
off
. That’s
what
he
said—my
Dutch
head
. But
he’s
all
right
, even
if
he
ain’t
no
business
man
. He’s
given
me
my
chance
, an’
he’s
all
right
.”
Invitations
to
dinner
poured
in
on
Martin
; and
the
more
they
poured
,
the
more
he
puzzled
. He
sat
, the
guest
of
honor
, at
an
Arden
Club
banquet
, with
men
of
note
whom
he
had
heard
about
and
read
about
all
his
life
; and
they
told
him
how
, when
they
had
read
“The
Ring
of
Bells”
in
the
_Transcontinental_
, and
“The
Peri
and
the
Pearl”
in
_The
Hornet_
, they
had
immediately
picked
him
for
a
winner
. My
God
! and
I
was
hungry
and
in
rags
, he
thought
to
himself
. Why
didn’t
you
give
me
a
dinner
then
? Then
was
the
time
. It
was
work
performed
. If
you
are
feeding
me
now
for
work
performed
, why
did
you
not
feed
me
then
when
I
needed
it
? Not
one
word
in
“The
Ring
of
Bells
,”
nor
in
“The
Peri
and
the
Pearl”
has
been
changed
. No
; you’re
not
feeding
me
now
for
work
performed
. You
are
feeding
me
because
everybody
else
is
feeding
me
and
because
it
is
an
honor
to
feed
me
. You
are
feeding
me
now
because
you
are
herd
animals
; because
you
are
part
of
the
mob
; because
the
one
blind
, automatic
thought
in
the
mob-mind
just
now
is
to
feed
me
. And
where
does
Martin
Eden
and
the
work
Martin
Eden
performed
come
in
in
all
this
? he
asked
himself
plaintively
, then
arose
to
respond
cleverly
and
wittily
to
a
clever
and
witty
toast
.
So
it
went
. Wherever
he
happened
to
be—at
the
Press
Club
, at
the
Redwood
Club
, at
pink
teas
and
literary
gatherings—always
were
remembered
“The
Ring
of
Bells”
and
“The
Peri
and
the
Pearl”
when
they
were
first
published
. And
always
was
Martin’s
maddening
and
unuttered
demand
: Why
didn’t
you
feed
me
then
? It
was
work
performed
. “The
Ring
of
Bells”
and
“The
Peri
and
the
Pearl”
are
not
changed
one
iota
. They
were
just
as
artistic
, just
as
worth
while
, then
as
now
. But
you
are
not
feeding
me
for
their
sake
, nor
for
the
sake
of
anything
else
I
have
written
. You’re
feeding
me
because
it
is
the
style
of
feeding
just
now
,
because
the
whole
mob
is
crazy
with
the
idea
of
feeding
Martin
Eden
.
And
often
, at
such
times
, he
would
abruptly
see
slouch
in
among
the
company
a
young
hoodlum
in
square-cut
coat
and
under
a
stiff-rim
Stetson
hat
. It
happened
to
him
at
the
Gallina
Society
in
Oakland
one
afternoon
. As
he
rose
from
his
chair
and
stepped
forward
across
the
platform
, he
saw
stalk
through
the
wide
door
at
the
rear
of
the
great
room
the
young
hoodlum
with
the
square-cut
coat
and
stiff-rim
hat
. Five
hundred
fashionably
gowned
women
turned
their
heads
, so
intent
and
steadfast
was
Martin’s
gaze
, to
see
what
he
was
seeing
. But
they
saw
only
the
empty
centre
aisle
. He
saw
the
young
tough
lurching
down
that
aisle
and
wondered
if
he
would
remove
the
stiff-rim
which
never
yet
had
he
seen
him
without
. Straight
down
the
aisle
he
came
, and
up
the
platform
. Martin
could
have
wept
over
that
youthful
shade
of
himself
,
when
he
thought
of
all
that
lay
before
him
. Across
the
platform
he
swaggered
, right
up
to
Martin
, and
into
the
foreground
of
Martin’s
consciousness
disappeared
. The
five
hundred
women
applauded
softly
with
gloved
hands
, seeking
to
encourage
the
bashful
great
man
who
was
their
guest
. And
Martin
shook
the
vision
from
his
brain
, smiled
, and
began
to
speak
.
The
Superintendent
of
Schools
, good
old
man
, stopped
Martin
on
the
street
and
remembered
him
, recalling
seances
in
his
office
when
Martin
was
expelled
from
school
for
fighting
.
“I
read
your
‘Ring
of
Bells’
in
one
of
the
magazines
quite
a
time
ago
,”
he
said
. “It
was
as
good
as
Poe
. Splendid
, I
said
at
the
time
,
splendid
!”
Yes
, and
twice
in
the
months
that
followed
you
passed
me
on
the
street
and
did
not
know
me
, Martin
almost
said
aloud
. Each
time
I
was
hungry
and
heading
for
the
pawnbroker
. Yet
it
was
work
performed
. You
did
not
know
me
then
. Why
do
you
know
me
now
?
“I
was
remarking
to
my
wife
only
the
other
day
,”
the
other
was
saying
,
“wouldn’t
it
be
a
good
idea
to
have
you
out
to
dinner
some
time
? And
she
quite
agreed
with
me
. Yes
, she
quite
agreed
with
me
.”
“Dinner
?”
Martin
said
so
sharply
that
it
was
almost
a
snarl
.
“Why
, yes
, yes
, dinner
, you
know—just
pot
luck
with
us
, with
your
old
superintendent
, you
rascal
,”
he
uttered
nervously
, poking
Martin
in
an
attempt
at
jocular
fellowship
.
Martin
went
down
the
street
in
a
daze
. He
stopped
at
the
corner
and
looked
about
him
vacantly
.
“Well
, I’ll
be
damned
!”
he
murmured
at
last
. “The
old
fellow
was
afraid
of
me
.”
CHAPTER
XLV
.
Kreis
came
to
Martin
one
day—Kreis
, of
the
“real
dirt”
; and
Martin
turned
to
him
with
relief
, to
receive
the
glowing
details
of
a
scheme
sufficiently
wild-catty
to
interest
him
as
a
fictionist
rather
than
an
investor
. Kreis
paused
long
enough
in
the
midst
of
his
exposition
to
tell
him
that
in
most
of
his
“Shame
of
the
Sun”
he
had
been
a
chump
.
“But
I
didn’t
come
here
to
spout
philosophy
,”
Kreis
went
on
. “What
I
want
to
know
is
whether
or
not
you
will
put
a
thousand
dollars
in
on
this
deal
?”
“No
, I’m
not
chump
enough
for
that
, at
any
rate
,”
Martin
answered
. “But
I’ll
tell
you
what
I
will
do
. You
gave
me
the
greatest
night
of
my
life
. You
gave
me
what
money
cannot
buy
. Now
I’ve
got
money
, and
it
means
nothing
to
me
. I’d
like
to
turn
over
to
you
a
thousand
dollars
of
what
I
don’t
value
for
what
you
gave
me
that
night
and
which
was
beyond
price
. You
need
the
money
. I’ve
got
more
than
I
need
. You
want
it
. You
came
for
it
. There’s
no
use
scheming
it
out
of
me
. Take
it
.”
Kreis
betrayed
no
surprise
. He
folded
the
check
away
in
his
pocket
.
“At
that
rate
I’d
like
the
contract
of
providing
you
with
many
such
nights
,”
he
said
.
“Too
late
.”
Martin
shook
his
head
. “That
night
was
the
one
night
for
me
. I
was
in
paradise
. It’s
commonplace
with
you
, I
know
. But
it
wasn’t
to
me
. I
shall
never
live
at
such
a
pitch
again
. I’m
done
with
philosophy
. I
want
never
to
hear
another
word
of
it
.”
“The
first
dollar
I
ever
made
in
my
life
out
of
my
philosophy
,”
Kreis
remarked
, as
he
paused
in
the
doorway
. “And
then
the
market
broke
.”
Mrs
. Morse
drove
by
Martin
on
the
street
one
day
, and
smiled
and
nodded
. He
smiled
back
and
lifted
his
hat
. The
episode
did
not
affect
him
. A
month
before
it
might
have
disgusted
him
, or
made
him
curious
and
set
him
to
speculating
about
her
state
of
consciousness
at
that
moment
. But
now
it
was
not
provocative
of
a
second
thought
. He
forgot
about
it
the
next
moment
. He
forgot
about
it
as
he
would
have
forgotten
the
Central
Bank
Building
or
the
City
Hall
after
having
walked
past
them
. Yet
his
mind
was
preternaturally
active
. His
thoughts
went
ever
around
and
around
in
a
circle
. The
centre
of
that
circle
was
“work
performed”
; it
ate
at
his
brain
like
a
deathless
maggot
. He
awoke
to
it
in
the
morning
. It
tormented
his
dreams
at
night
. Every
affair
of
life
around
him
that
penetrated
through
his
senses
immediately
related
itself
to
“work
performed
.”
He
drove
along
the
path
of
relentless
logic
to
the
conclusion
that
he
was
nobody
, nothing
. Mart
Eden
, the
hoodlum
,
and
Mart
Eden
, the
sailor
, had
been
real
, had
been
he
; but
Martin
Eden
!
the
famous
writer
, did
not
exist
. Martin
Eden
, the
famous
writer
, was
a
vapor
that
had
arisen
in
the
mob-mind
and
by
the
mob-mind
had
been
thrust
into
the
corporeal
being
of
Mart
Eden
, the
hoodlum
and
sailor
.
But
it
couldn’t
fool
him
. He
was
not
that
sun-myth
that
the
mob
was
worshipping
and
sacrificing
dinners
to
. He
knew
better
.
He
read
the
magazines
about
himself
, and
pored
over
portraits
of
himself
published
therein
until
he
was
unable
to
associate
his
identity
with
those
portraits
. He
was
the
fellow
who
had
lived
and
thrilled
and
loved
; who
had
been
easy-going
and
tolerant
of
the
frailties
of
life
;
who
had
served
in
the
forecastle
, wandered
in
strange
lands
, and
led
his
gang
in
the
old
fighting
days
. He
was
the
fellow
who
had
been
stunned
at
first
by
the
thousands
of
books
in
the
free
library
, and
who
had
afterward
learned
his
way
among
them
and
mastered
them
; he
was
the
fellow
who
had
burned
the
midnight
oil
and
bedded
with
a
spur
and
written
books
himself
. But
the
one
thing
he
was
not
was
that
colossal
appetite
that
all
the
mob
was
bent
upon
feeding
.
There
were
things
, however
, in
the
magazines
that
amused
him
. All
the
magazines
were
claiming
him
. _Warren’s
Monthly_
advertised
to
its
subscribers
that
it
was
always
on
the
quest
after
new
writers
, and
that
, among
others
, it
had
introduced
Martin
Eden
to
the
reading
public
. _The
White
Mouse_
claimed
him
; so
did
_The
Northern
Review_
and
_Mackintosh’s
Magazine_
, until
silenced
by
_The
Globe_
, which
pointed
triumphantly
to
its
files
where
the
mangled
“Sea
Lyrics”
lay
buried
.
_Youth
and
Age_
, which
had
come
to
life
again
after
having
escaped
paying
its
bills
, put
in
a
prior
claim
, which
nobody
but
farmers’
children
ever
read
. The
_Transcontinental_
made
a
dignified
and
convincing
statement
of
how
it
first
discovered
Martin
Eden
, which
was
warmly
disputed
by
_The
Hornet_
, with
the
exhibit
of
“The
Peri
and
the
Pearl
.”
The
modest
claim
of
Singletree
, Darnley
&
Co
. was
lost
in
the
din
. Besides
, that
publishing
firm
did
not
own
a
magazine
wherewith
to
make
its
claim
less
modest
.
The
newspapers
calculated
Martin’s
royalties
. In
some
way
the
magnificent
offers
certain
magazines
had
made
him
leaked
out
, and
Oakland
ministers
called
upon
him
in
a
friendly
way
, while
professional
begging
letters
began
to
clutter
his
mail
. But
worse
than
all
this
were
the
women
. His
photographs
were
published
broadcast
, and
special
writers
exploited
his
strong
, bronzed
face
, his
scars
, his
heavy
shoulders
, his
clear
, quiet
eyes
, and
the
slight
hollows
in
his
cheeks
like
an
ascetic’s
. At
this
last
he
remembered
his
wild
youth
and
smiled
. Often
, among
the
women
he
met
, he
would
see
now
one
, now
another
, looking
at
him
, appraising
him
, selecting
him
. He
laughed
to
himself
. He
remembered
Brissenden’s
warning
and
laughed
again
. The
women
would
never
destroy
him
, that
much
was
certain
. He
had
gone
past
that
stage
.
Once
, walking
with
Lizzie
toward
night
school
, she
caught
a
glance
directed
toward
him
by
a
well-gowned
, handsome
woman
of
the
bourgeoisie
. The
glance
was
a
trifle
too
long
, a
shade
too
considerative
. Lizzie
knew
it
for
what
it
was
, and
her
body
tensed
angrily
. Martin
noticed
, noticed
the
cause
of
it
, told
her
how
used
he
was
becoming
to
it
and
that
he
did
not
care
anyway
.
“You
ought
to
care
,”
she
answered
with
blazing
eyes
. “You’re
sick
.
That’s
what’s
the
matter
.”
“Never
healthier
in
my
life
. I
weigh
five
pounds
more
than
I
ever
did
.”
“It
ain’t
your
body
. It’s
your
head
. Something’s
wrong
with
your
think-machine
. Even
I
can
see
that
, an’
I
ain’t
nobody
.”
He
walked
on
beside
her
, reflecting
.
“I’d
give
anything
to
see
you
get
over
it
,”
she
broke
out
impulsively
.
“You
ought
to
care
when
women
look
at
you
that
way
, a
man
like
you
.
It’s
not
natural
. It’s
all
right
enough
for
sissy-boys
. But
you
ain’t
made
that
way
. So
help
me
, I’d
be
willing
an’
glad
if
the
right
woman
came
along
an’
made
you
care
.”
When
he
left
Lizzie
at
night
school
, he
returned
to
the
Metropole
.
Once
in
his
rooms
, he
dropped
into
a
Morris
chair
and
sat
staring
straight
before
him
. He
did
not
doze
. Nor
did
he
think
. His
mind
was
a
blank
, save
for
the
intervals
when
unsummoned
memory
pictures
took
form
and
color
and
radiance
just
under
his
eyelids
. He
saw
these
pictures
,
but
he
was
scarcely
conscious
of
them—no
more
so
than
if
they
had
been
dreams
. Yet
he
was
not
asleep
. Once
, he
roused
himself
and
glanced
at
his
watch
. It
was
just
eight
o’clock
. He
had
nothing
to
do
, and
it
was
too
early
for
bed
. Then
his
mind
went
blank
again
, and
the
pictures
began
to
form
and
vanish
under
his
eyelids
. There
was
nothing
distinctive
about
the
pictures
. They
were
always
masses
of
leaves
and
shrub-like
branches
shot
through
with
hot
sunshine
.
A
knock
at
the
door
aroused
him
. He
was
not
asleep
, and
his
mind
immediately
connected
the
knock
with
a
telegram
, or
letter
, or
perhaps
one
of
the
servants
bringing
back
clean
clothes
from
the
laundry
. He
was
thinking
about
Joe
and
wondering
where
he
was
, as
he
said
, “Come
in
.”
He
was
still
thinking
about
Joe
, and
did
not
turn
toward
the
door
. He
heard
it
close
softly
. There
was
a
long
silence
. He
forgot
that
there
had
been
a
knock
at
the
door
, and
was
still
staring
blankly
before
him
when
he
heard
a
woman’s
sob
. It
was
involuntary
, spasmodic
, checked
,
and
stifled—he
noted
that
as
he
turned
about
. The
next
instant
he
was
on
his
feet
.
“Ruth
!”
he
said
, amazed
and
bewildered
.
Her
face
was
white
and
strained
. She
stood
just
inside
the
door
, one
hand
against
it
for
support
, the
other
pressed
to
her
side
. She
extended
both
hands
toward
him
piteously
, and
started
forward
to
meet
him
. As
he
caught
her
hands
and
led
her
to
the
Morris
chair
he
noticed
how
cold
they
were
. He
drew
up
another
chair
and
sat
down
on
the
broad
arm
of
it
. He
was
too
confused
to
speak
. In
his
own
mind
his
affair
with
Ruth
was
closed
and
sealed
. He
felt
much
in
the
same
way
that
he
would
have
felt
had
the
Shelly
Hot
Springs
Laundry
suddenly
invaded
the
Hotel
Metropole
with
a
whole
week’s
washing
ready
for
him
to
pitch
into
. Several
times
he
was
about
to
speak
, and
each
time
he
hesitated
.
“No
one
knows
I
am
here
,”
Ruth
said
in
a
faint
voice
, with
an
appealing
smile
.
“What
did
you
say
?”
He
was
surprised
at
the
sound
of
his
own
voice
.
She
repeated
her
words
.
“Oh
,”
he
said
, then
wondered
what
more
he
could
possibly
say
.
“I
saw
you
come
in
, and
I
waited
a
few
minutes
.”
“Oh
,”
he
said
again
.
He
had
never
been
so
tongue-tied
in
his
life
. Positively
he
did
not
have
an
idea
in
his
head
. He
felt
stupid
and
awkward
, but
for
the
life
of
him
he
could
think
of
nothing
to
say
. It
would
have
been
easier
had
the
intrusion
been
the
Shelly
Hot
Springs
laundry
. He
could
have
rolled
up
his
sleeves
and
gone
to
work
.
“And
then
you
came
in
,”
he
said
finally
.
She
nodded
, with
a
slightly
arch
expression
, and
loosened
the
scarf
at
her
throat
.
“I
saw
you
first
from
across
the
street
when
you
were
with
that
girl
.”
“Oh
, yes
,”
he
said
simply
. “I
took
her
down
to
night
school
.”
“Well
, aren’t
you
glad
to
see
me
?”
she
said
at
the
end
of
another
silence
.
“Yes
, yes
.”
He
spoke
hastily
. “But
wasn’t
it
rash
of
you
to
come
here
?”
“I
slipped
in
. Nobody
knows
I
am
here
. I
wanted
to
see
you
. I
came
to
tell
you
I
have
been
very
foolish
. I
came
because
I
could
no
longer
stay
away
, because
my
heart
compelled
me
to
come
, because—because
I
wanted
to
come
.”
She
came
forward
, out
of
her
chair
and
over
to
him
. She
rested
her
hand
on
his
shoulder
a
moment
, breathing
quickly
, and
then
slipped
into
his
arms
. And
in
his
large
, easy
way
, desirous
of
not
inflicting
hurt
,
knowing
that
to
repulse
this
proffer
of
herself
was
to
inflict
the
most
grievous
hurt
a
woman
could
receive
, he
folded
his
arms
around
her
and
held
her
close
. But
there
was
no
warmth
in
the
embrace
, no
caress
in
the
contact
. She
had
come
into
his
arms
, and
he
held
her
, that
was
all
.
She
nestled
against
him
, and
then
, with
a
change
of
position
, her
hands
crept
up
and
rested
upon
his
neck
. But
his
flesh
was
not
fire
beneath
those
hands
, and
he
felt
awkward
and
uncomfortable
.
“What
makes
you
tremble
so
?”
he
asked
. “Is
it
a
chill
? Shall
I
light
the
grate
?”
He
made
a
movement
to
disengage
himself
, but
she
clung
more
closely
to
him
, shivering
violently
.
“It
is
merely
nervousness
,”
she
said
with
chattering
teeth
. “I’ll
control
myself
in
a
minute
. There
, I
am
better
already
.”
Slowly
her
shivering
died
away
. He
continued
to
hold
her
, but
he
was
no
longer
puzzled
. He
knew
now
for
what
she
had
come
.
“My
mother
wanted
me
to
marry
Charley
Hapgood
,”
she
announced
.
“Charley
Hapgood
, that
fellow
who
speaks
always
in
platitudes
?”
Martin
groaned
. Then
he
added
, “And
now
, I
suppose
, your
mother
wants
you
to
marry
me
.”
He
did
not
put
it
in
the
form
of
a
question
. He
stated
it
as
a
certitude
, and
before
his
eyes
began
to
dance
the
rows
of
figures
of
his
royalties
.
“She
will
not
object
, I
know
that
much
,”
Ruth
said
.
“She
considers
me
quite
eligible
?”
Ruth
nodded
.
“And
yet
I
am
not
a
bit
more
eligible
now
than
I
was
when
she
broke
our
engagement
,”
he
meditated
. “I
haven’t
changed
any
. I’m
the
same
Martin
Eden
, though
for
that
matter
I’m
a
bit
worse—I
smoke
now
. Don’t
you
smell
my
breath
?”
In
reply
she
pressed
her
open
fingers
against
his
lips
, placed
them
graciously
and
playfully
, and
in
expectancy
of
the
kiss
that
of
old
had
always
been
a
consequence
. But
there
was
no
caressing
answer
of
Martin’s
lips
. He
waited
until
the
fingers
were
removed
and
then
went
on
.
“I
am
not
changed
. I
haven’t
got
a
job
. I’m
not
looking
for
a
job
.
Furthermore
, I
am
not
going
to
look
for
a
job
. And
I
still
believe
that
Herbert
Spencer
is
a
great
and
noble
man
and
that
Judge
Blount
is
an
unmitigated
ass
. I
had
dinner
with
him
the
other
night
, so
I
ought
to
know
.”
“But
you
didn’t
accept
father’s
invitation
,”
she
chided
.
“So
you
know
about
that
? Who
sent
him
? Your
mother
?”
She
remained
silent
.
“Then
she
did
send
him
. I
thought
so
. And
now
I
suppose
she
has
sent
you
.”
“No
one
knows
that
I
am
here
,”
she
protested
. “Do
you
think
my
mother
would
permit
this
?”
“She’d
permit
you
to
marry
me
, that’s
certain
.”
She
gave
a
sharp
cry
. “Oh
, Martin
, don’t
be
cruel
. You
have
not
kissed
me
once
. You
are
as
unresponsive
as
a
stone
. And
think
what
I
have
dared
to
do
.”
She
looked
about
her
with
a
shiver
, though
half
the
look
was
curiosity
. “Just
think
of
where
I
am
.”
“_I
could
die
for
you
! I
could
die
for
you_
!”—Lizzie’s
words
were
ringing
in
his
ears
.
“Why
didn’t
you
dare
it
before
?”
he
asked
harshly
. “When
I
hadn’t
a
job
? When
I
was
starving
? When
I
was
just
as
I
am
now
, as
a
man
, as
an
artist
, the
same
Martin
Eden
? That’s
the
question
I’ve
been
propounding
to
myself
for
many
a
day—not
concerning
you
merely
, but
concerning
everybody
. You
see
I
have
not
changed
, though
my
sudden
apparent
appreciation
in
value
compels
me
constantly
to
reassure
myself
on
that
point
. I’ve
got
the
same
flesh
on
my
bones
, the
same
ten
fingers
and
toes
. I
am
the
same
. I
have
not
developed
any
new
strength
nor
virtue
.
My
brain
is
the
same
old
brain
. I
haven’t
made
even
one
new
generalization
on
literature
or
philosophy
. I
am
personally
of
the
same
value
that
I
was
when
nobody
wanted
me
. And
what
is
puzzling
me
is
why
they
want
me
now
. Surely
they
don’t
want
me
for
myself
, for
myself
is
the
same
old
self
they
did
not
want
. Then
they
must
want
me
for
something
else
, for
something
that
is
outside
of
me
, for
something
that
is
not
I
! Shall
I
tell
you
what
that
something
is
? It
is
for
the
recognition
I
have
received
. That
recognition
is
not
I
. It
resides
in
the
minds
of
others
. Then
again
for
the
money
I
have
earned
and
am
earning
. But
that
money
is
not
I
. It
resides
in
banks
and
in
the
pockets
of
Tom
, Dick
, and
Harry
. And
is
it
for
that
, for
the
recognition
and
the
money
, that
you
now
want
me
?”
“You
are
breaking
my
heart
,”
she
sobbed
. “You
know
I
love
you
, that
I
am
here
because
I
love
you
.”
“I
am
afraid
you
don’t
see
my
point
,”
he
said
gently
. “What
I
mean
is
:
if
you
love
me
, how
does
it
happen
that
you
love
me
now
so
much
more
than
you
did
when
your
love
was
weak
enough
to
deny
me
?”
“Forget
and
forgive
,”
she
cried
passionately
. “I
loved
you
all
the
time
, remember
that
, and
I
am
here
, now
, in
your
arms
.”
“I’m
afraid
I
am
a
shrewd
merchant
, peering
into
the
scales
, trying
to
weigh
your
love
and
find
out
what
manner
of
thing
it
is
.”
She
withdrew
herself
from
his
arms
, sat
upright
, and
looked
at
him
long
and
searchingly
. She
was
about
to
speak
, then
faltered
and
changed
her
mind
.
“You
see
, it
appears
this
way
to
me
,”
he
went
on
. “When
I
was
all
that
I
am
now
, nobody
out
of
my
own
class
seemed
to
care
for
me
. When
my
books
were
all
written
, no
one
who
had
read
the
manuscripts
seemed
to
care
for
them
. In
point
of
fact
, because
of
the
stuff
I
had
written
they
seemed
to
care
even
less
for
me
. In
writing
the
stuff
it
seemed
that
I
had
committed
acts
that
were
, to
say
the
least
, derogatory
. ‘Get
a
job
,’
everybody
said
.”
She
made
a
movement
of
dissent
.
“Yes
, yes
,”
he
said
; “except
in
your
case
you
told
me
to
get
a
position
. The
homely
word
_job_
, like
much
that
I
have
written
, offends
you
. It
is
brutal
. But
I
assure
you
it
was
no
less
brutal
to
me
when
everybody
I
knew
recommended
it
to
me
as
they
would
recommend
right
conduct
to
an
immoral
creature
. But
to
return
. The
publication
of
what
I
had
written
, and
the
public
notice
I
received
, wrought
a
change
in
the
fibre
of
your
love
. Martin
Eden
, with
his
work
all
performed
, you
would
not
marry
. Your
love
for
him
was
not
strong
enough
to
enable
you
to
marry
him
. But
your
love
is
now
strong
enough
, and
I
cannot
avoid
the
conclusion
that
its
strength
arises
from
the
publication
and
the
public
notice
. In
your
case
I
do
not
mention
royalties
, though
I
am
certain
that
they
apply
to
the
change
wrought
in
your
mother
and
father
. Of
course
, all
this
is
not
flattering
to
me
. But
worst
of
all
,
it
makes
me
question
love
, sacred
love
. Is
love
so
gross
a
thing
that
it
must
feed
upon
publication
and
public
notice
? It
would
seem
so
. I
have
sat
and
thought
upon
it
till
my
head
went
around
.”
“Poor
, dear
head
.”
She
reached
up
a
hand
and
passed
the
fingers
soothingly
through
his
hair
. “Let
it
go
around
no
more
. Let
us
begin
anew
, now
. I
loved
you
all
the
time
. I
know
that
I
was
weak
in
yielding
to
my
mother’s
will
. I
should
not
have
done
so
. Yet
I
have
heard
you
speak
so
often
with
broad
charity
of
the
fallibility
and
frailty
of
humankind
. Extend
that
charity
to
me
. I
acted
mistakenly
. Forgive
me
.”
“Oh
, I
do
forgive
,”
he
said
impatiently
. “It
is
easy
to
forgive
where
there
is
really
nothing
to
forgive
. Nothing
that
you
have
done
requires
forgiveness
. One
acts
according
to
one’s
lights
, and
more
than
that
one
cannot
do
. As
well
might
I
ask
you
to
forgive
me
for
my
not
getting
a
job
.”
“I
meant
well
,”
she
protested
. “You
know
that
I
could
not
have
loved
you
and
not
meant
well
.”
“True
; but
you
would
have
destroyed
me
out
of
your
well-meaning
.”
“Yes
, yes
,”
he
shut
off
her
attempted
objection
. “You
would
have
destroyed
my
writing
and
my
career
. Realism
is
imperative
to
my
nature
,
and
the
bourgeois
spirit
hates
realism
. The
bourgeoisie
is
cowardly
. It
is
afraid
of
life
. And
all
your
effort
was
to
make
me
afraid
of
life
.
You
would
have
formalized
me
. You
would
have
compressed
me
into
a
two-by-four
pigeonhole
of
life
, where
all
life’s
values
are
unreal
, and
false
, and
vulgar
.”
He
felt
her
stir
protestingly
. “Vulgarity—a
hearty
vulgarity
, I’ll
admit—is
the
basis
of
bourgeois
refinement
and
culture
.
As
I
say
, you
wanted
to
formalize
me
, to
make
me
over
into
one
of
your
own
class
, with
your
class-ideals
, class-values
, and
class-prejudices
.”
He
shook
his
head
sadly
. “And
you
do
not
understand
, even
now
, what
I
am
saying
. My
words
do
not
mean
to
you
what
I
endeavor
to
make
them
mean
. What
I
say
is
so
much
fantasy
to
you
. Yet
to
me
it
is
vital
reality
. At
the
best
you
are
a
trifle
puzzled
and
amused
that
this
raw
boy
, crawling
up
out
of
the
mire
of
the
abyss
, should
pass
judgment
upon
your
class
and
call
it
vulgar
.”
She
leaned
her
head
wearily
against
his
shoulder
, and
her
body
shivered
with
recurrent
nervousness
. He
waited
for
a
time
for
her
to
speak
, and
then
went
on
.
“And
now
you
want
to
renew
our
love
. You
want
us
to
be
married
. You
want
me
. And
yet
, listen—if
my
books
had
not
been
noticed
, I’d
nevertheless
have
been
just
what
I
am
now
. And
you
would
have
stayed
away
. It
is
all
those
damned
books—”
“Don’t
swear
,”
she
interrupted
.
Her
reproof
startled
him
. He
broke
into
a
harsh
laugh
.
“That’s
it
,”
he
said
, “at
a
high
moment
, when
what
seems
your
life’s
happiness
is
at
stake
, you
are
afraid
of
life
in
the
same
old
way—afraid
of
life
and
a
healthy
oath
.”
She
was
stung
by
his
words
into
realization
of
the
puerility
of
her
act
, and
yet
she
felt
that
he
had
magnified
it
unduly
and
was
consequently
resentful
. They
sat
in
silence
for
a
long
time
, she
thinking
desperately
and
he
pondering
upon
his
love
which
had
departed
.
He
knew
, now
, that
he
had
not
really
loved
her
. It
was
an
idealized
Ruth
he
had
loved
, an
ethereal
creature
of
his
own
creating
, the
bright
and
luminous
spirit
of
his
love-poems
. The
real
bourgeois
Ruth
, with
all
the
bourgeois
failings
and
with
the
hopeless
cramp
of
the
bourgeois
psychology
in
her
mind
, he
had
never
loved
.
She
suddenly
began
to
speak
.
“I
know
that
much
you
have
said
is
so
. I
have
been
afraid
of
life
. I
did
not
love
you
well
enough
. I
have
learned
to
love
better
. I
love
you
for
what
you
are
, for
what
you
were
, for
the
ways
even
by
which
you
have
become
. I
love
you
for
the
ways
wherein
you
differ
from
what
you
call
my
class
, for
your
beliefs
which
I
do
not
understand
but
which
I
know
I
can
come
to
understand
. I
shall
devote
myself
to
understanding
them
. And
even
your
smoking
and
your
swearing—they
are
part
of
you
and
I
will
love
you
for
them
, too
. I
can
still
learn
. In
the
last
ten
minutes
I
have
learned
much
. That
I
have
dared
to
come
here
is
a
token
of
what
I
have
already
learned
. Oh
, Martin
!—”
She
was
sobbing
and
nestling
close
against
him
.
For
the
first
time
his
arms
folded
her
gently
and
with
sympathy
, and
she
acknowledged
it
with
a
happy
movement
and
a
brightening
face
.
“It
is
too
late
,”
he
said
. He
remembered
Lizzie’s
words
. “I
am
a
sick
man—oh
, not
my
body
. It
is
my
soul
, my
brain
. I
seem
to
have
lost
all
values
. I
care
for
nothing
. If
you
had
been
this
way
a
few
months
ago
,
it
would
have
been
different
. It
is
too
late
, now
.”
“It
is
not
too
late
,”
she
cried
. “I
will
show
you
. I
will
prove
to
you
that
my
love
has
grown
, that
it
is
greater
to
me
than
my
class
and
all
that
is
dearest
to
me
. All
that
is
dearest
to
the
bourgeoisie
I
will
flout
. I
am
no
longer
afraid
of
life
. I
will
leave
my
father
and
mother
, and
let
my
name
become
a
by-word
with
my
friends
. I
will
come
to
you
here
and
now
, in
free
love
if
you
will
, and
I
will
be
proud
and
glad
to
be
with
you
. If
I
have
been
a
traitor
to
love
, I
will
now
, for
love’s
sake
, be
a
traitor
to
all
that
made
that
earlier
treason
.”
She
stood
before
him
, with
shining
eyes
.
“I
am
waiting
, Martin
,”
she
whispered
, “waiting
for
you
to
accept
me
.
Look
at
me
.”
It
was
splendid
, he
thought
, looking
at
her
. She
had
redeemed
herself
for
all
that
she
had
lacked
, rising
up
at
last
, true
woman
, superior
to
the
iron
rule
of
bourgeois
convention
. It
was
splendid
, magnificent
,
desperate
. And
yet
, what
was
the
matter
with
him
? He
was
not
thrilled
nor
stirred
by
what
she
had
done
. It
was
splendid
and
magnificent
only
intellectually
. In
what
should
have
been
a
moment
of
fire
, he
coldly
appraised
her
. His
heart
was
untouched
. He
was
unaware
of
any
desire
for
her
. Again
he
remembered
Lizzie’s
words
.
“I
am
sick
, very
sick
,”
he
said
with
a
despairing
gesture
. “How
sick
I
did
not
know
till
now
. Something
has
gone
out
of
me
. I
have
always
been
unafraid
of
life
, but
I
never
dreamed
of
being
sated
with
life
. Life
has
so
filled
me
that
I
am
empty
of
any
desire
for
anything
. If
there
were
room
, I
should
want
you
, now
. You
see
how
sick
I
am
.”
He
leaned
his
head
back
and
closed
his
eyes
; and
like
a
child
, crying
,
that
forgets
its
grief
in
watching
the
sunlight
percolate
through
the
tear-dimmed
films
over
the
pupils
, so
Martin
forgot
his
sickness
, the
presence
of
Ruth
, everything
, in
watching
the
masses
of
vegetation
,
shot
through
hotly
with
sunshine
that
took
form
and
blazed
against
this
background
of
his
eyelids
. It
was
not
restful
, that
green
foliage
. The
sunlight
was
too
raw
and
glaring
. It
hurt
him
to
look
at
it
, and
yet
he
looked
, he
knew
not
why
.
He
was
brought
back
to
himself
by
the
rattle
of
the
door-knob
. Ruth
was
at
the
door
.
“How
shall
I
get
out
?”
she
questioned
tearfully
. “I
am
afraid
.”
“Oh
, forgive
me
,”
he
cried
, springing
to
his
feet
. “I’m
not
myself
, you
know
. I
forgot
you
were
here
.”
He
put
his
hand
to
his
head
. “You
see
,
I’m
not
just
right
. I’ll
take
you
home
. We
can
go
out
by
the
servants’
entrance
. No
one
will
see
us
. Pull
down
that
veil
and
everything
will
be
all
right
.”
She
clung
to
his
arm
through
the
dim-lighted
passages
and
down
the
narrow
stairs
.
“I
am
safe
now
,”
she
said
, when
they
emerged
on
the
sidewalk
, at
the
same
time
starting
to
take
her
hand
from
his
arm
.
“No
, no
, I’ll
see
you
home
,”
he
answered
.
“No
, please
don’t
,”
she
objected
. “It
is
unnecessary
.”
Again
she
started
to
remove
her
hand
. He
felt
a
momentary
curiosity
.
Now
that
she
was
out
of
danger
she
was
afraid
. She
was
in
almost
a
panic
to
be
quit
of
him
. He
could
see
no
reason
for
it
and
attributed
it
to
her
nervousness
. So
he
restrained
her
withdrawing
hand
and
started
to
walk
on
with
her
. Halfway
down
the
block
, he
saw
a
man
in
a
long
overcoat
shrink
back
into
a
doorway
. He
shot
a
glance
in
as
he
passed
by
, and
, despite
the
high
turned-up
collar
, he
was
certain
that
he
recognized
Ruth’s
brother
, Norman
.
During
the
walk
Ruth
and
Martin
held
little
conversation
. She
was
stunned
. He
was
apathetic
. Once
, he
mentioned
that
he
was
going
away
,
back
to
the
South
Seas
, and
, once
, she
asked
him
to
forgive
her
having
come
to
him
. And
that
was
all
. The
parting
at
her
door
was
conventional
. They
shook
hands
, said
good
night
, and
he
lifted
his
hat
.
The
door
swung
shut
, and
he
lighted
a
cigarette
and
turned
back
for
his
hotel
. When
he
came
to
the
doorway
into
which
he
had
seen
Norman
shrink
, he
stopped
and
looked
in
in
a
speculative
humor
.
“She
lied
,”
he
said
aloud
. “She
made
believe
to
me
that
she
had
dared
greatly
, and
all
the
while
she
knew
the
brother
that
brought
her
was
waiting
to
take
her
back
.”
He
burst
into
laughter
. “Oh
, these
bourgeois
! When
I
was
broke
, I
was
not
fit
to
be
seen
with
his
sister
.
When
I
have
a
bank
account
, he
brings
her
to
me
.”
As
he
swung
on
his
heel
to
go
on
, a
tramp
, going
in
the
same
direction
,
begged
him
over
his
shoulder
.
“Say
, mister
, can
you
give
me
a
quarter
to
get
a
bed
?”
were
the
words
.
But
it
was
the
voice
that
made
Martin
turn
around
. The
next
instant
he
had
Joe
by
the
hand
.
“D’ye
remember
that
time
we
parted
at
the
Hot
Springs
?”
the
other
was
saying
. “I
said
then
we’d
meet
again
. I
felt
it
in
my
bones
. An’
here
we
are
.”
“You’re
looking
good
,”
Martin
said
admiringly
, “and
you’ve
put
on
weight
.”
“I
sure
have
.”
Joe’s
face
was
beaming
. “I
never
knew
what
it
was
to
live
till
I
hit
hoboin’
. I’m
thirty
pounds
heavier
an’
feel
tiptop
all
the
time
. Why
, I
was
worked
to
skin
an’
bone
in
them
old
days
. Hoboin’
sure
agrees
with
me
.”
“But
you’re
looking
for
a
bed
just
the
same
,”
Martin
chided
, “and
it’s
a
cold
night
.”
“Huh
? Lookin’
for
a
bed
?”
Joe
shot
a
hand
into
his
hip
pocket
and
brought
it
out
filled
with
small
change
. “That
beats
hard
graft
,”
he
exulted
. “You
just
looked
good
; that’s
why
I
battered
you
.”
Martin
laughed
and
gave
in
.
“You’ve
several
full-sized
drunks
right
there
,”
he
insinuated
.
Joe
slid
the
money
back
into
his
pocket
.
“Not
in
mine
,”
he
announced
. “No
gettin’
oryide
for
me
, though
there
ain’t
nothin’
to
stop
me
except
I
don’t
want
to
. I’ve
ben
drunk
once
since
I
seen
you
last
, an’
then
it
was
unexpected
, bein’
on
an
empty
stomach
. When
I
work
like
a
beast
, I
drink
like
a
beast
. When
I
live
like
a
man
, I
drink
like
a
man—a
jolt
now
an’
again
when
I
feel
like
it
, an’
that’s
all
.”
Martin
arranged
to
meet
him
next
day
, and
went
on
to
the
hotel
. He
paused
in
the
office
to
look
up
steamer
sailings
. The
_Mariposa_
sailed
for
Tahiti
in
five
days
.
“Telephone
over
to-morrow
and
reserve
a
stateroom
for
me
,”
he
told
the
clerk
. “No
deck-stateroom
, but
down
below
, on
the
weather-side
,—the
port-side
, remember
that
, the
port-side
. You’d
better
write
it
down
.”
Once
in
his
room
he
got
into
bed
and
slipped
off
to
sleep
as
gently
as
a
child
. The
occurrences
of
the
evening
had
made
no
impression
on
him
.
His
mind
was
dead
to
impressions
. The
glow
of
warmth
with
which
he
met
Joe
had
been
most
fleeting
. The
succeeding
minute
he
had
been
bothered
by
the
ex-laundryman’s
presence
and
by
the
compulsion
of
conversation
.
That
in
five
more
days
he
sailed
for
his
loved
South
Seas
meant
nothing
to
him
. So
he
closed
his
eyes
and
slept
normally
and
comfortably
for
eight
uninterrupted
hours
. He
was
not
restless
. He
did
not
change
his
position
, nor
did
he
dream
. Sleep
had
become
to
him
oblivion
, and
each
day
that
he
awoke
, he
awoke
with
regret
. Life
worried
and
bored
him
,
and
time
was
a
vexation
.
CHAPTER
XLVI
.
“Say
, Joe
,”
was
his
greeting
to
his
old-time
working-mate
next
morning
,
“there’s
a
Frenchman
out
on
Twenty-eighth
Street
. He’s
made
a
pot
of
money
, and
he’s
going
back
to
France
. It’s
a
dandy
, well-appointed
,
small
steam
laundry
. There’s
a
start
for
you
if
you
want
to
settle
down
. Here
, take
this
; buy
some
clothes
with
it
and
be
at
this
man’s
office
by
ten
o’clock
. He
looked
up
the
laundry
for
me
, and
he’ll
take
you
out
and
show
you
around
. If
you
like
it
, and
think
it
is
worth
the
price—twelve
thousand—let
me
know
and
it
is
yours
. Now
run
along
. I’m
busy
. I’ll
see
you
later
.”
“Now
look
here
, Mart
,”
the
other
said
slowly
, with
kindling
anger
, “I
come
here
this
mornin’
to
see
you
. Savve
? I
didn’t
come
here
to
get
no
laundry
. I
come
here
for
a
talk
for
old
friends’
sake
, and
you
shove
a
laundry
at
me
. I
tell
you
what
you
can
do
. You
can
take
that
laundry
an’
go
to
hell
.”
He
was
out
of
the
room
when
Martin
caught
him
and
whirled
him
around
.
“Now
look
here
, Joe
,”
he
said
; “if
you
act
that
way
, I’ll
punch
your
head
. And
for
old
friends’
sake
I’ll
punch
it
hard
. Savve
?—you
will
,
will
you
?”
Joe
had
clinched
and
attempted
to
throw
him
, and
he
was
twisting
and
writhing
out
of
the
advantage
of
the
other’s
hold
. They
reeled
about
the
room
, locked
in
each
other’s
arms
, and
came
down
with
a
crash
across
the
splintered
wreckage
of
a
wicker
chair
. Joe
was
underneath
,
with
arms
spread
out
and
held
and
with
Martin’s
knee
on
his
chest
. He
was
panting
and
gasping
for
breath
when
Martin
released
him
.
“Now
we’ll
talk
a
moment
,”
Martin
said
. “You
can’t
get
fresh
with
me
. I
want
that
laundry
business
finished
first
of
all
. Then
you
can
come
back
and
we’ll
talk
for
old
sake’s
sake
. I
told
you
I
was
busy
. Look
at
that
.”
A
servant
had
just
come
in
with
the
morning
mail
, a
great
mass
of
letters
and
magazines
.
“How
can
I
wade
through
that
and
talk
with
you
? You
go
and
fix
up
that
laundry
, and
then
we’ll
get
together
.”
“All
right
,”
Joe
admitted
reluctantly
. “I
thought
you
was
turnin’
me
down
, but
I
guess
I
was
mistaken
. But
you
can’t
lick
me
, Mart
, in
a
stand-up
fight
. I’ve
got
the
reach
on
you
.”
“We’ll
put
on
the
gloves
sometime
and
see
,”
Martin
said
with
a
smile
.
“Sure
; as
soon
as
I
get
that
laundry
going
.”
Joe
extended
his
arm
. “You
see
that
reach
? It’ll
make
you
go
a
few
.”
Martin
heaved
a
sigh
of
relief
when
the
door
closed
behind
the
laundryman
. He
was
becoming
anti-social
. Daily
he
found
it
a
severer
strain
to
be
decent
with
people
. Their
presence
perturbed
him
, and
the
effort
of
conversation
irritated
him
. They
made
him
restless
, and
no
sooner
was
he
in
contact
with
them
than
he
was
casting
about
for
excuses
to
get
rid
of
them
.
He
did
not
proceed
to
attack
his
mail
, and
for
a
half
hour
he
lolled
in
his
chair
, doing
nothing
, while
no
more
than
vague
, half-formed
thoughts
occasionally
filtered
through
his
intelligence
, or
rather
, at
wide
intervals
, themselves
constituted
the
flickering
of
his
intelligence
.
He
roused
himself
and
began
glancing
through
his
mail
. There
were
a
dozen
requests
for
autographs—he
knew
them
at
sight
; there
were
professional
begging
letters
; and
there
were
letters
from
cranks
,
ranging
from
the
man
with
a
working
model
of
perpetual
motion
, and
the
man
who
demonstrated
that
the
surface
of
the
earth
was
the
inside
of
a
hollow
sphere
, to
the
man
seeking
financial
aid
to
purchase
the
Peninsula
of
Lower
California
for
the
purpose
of
communist
colonization
. There
were
letters
from
women
seeking
to
know
him
, and
over
one
such
he
smiled
, for
enclosed
was
her
receipt
for
pew-rent
,
sent
as
evidence
of
her
good
faith
and
as
proof
of
her
respectability
.
Editors
and
publishers
contributed
to
the
daily
heap
of
letters
, the
former
on
their
knees
for
his
manuscripts
, the
latter
on
their
knees
for
his
books—his
poor
disdained
manuscripts
that
had
kept
all
he
possessed
in
pawn
for
so
many
dreary
months
in
order
to
fund
them
in
postage
. There
were
unexpected
checks
for
English
serial
rights
and
for
advance
payments
on
foreign
translations
. His
English
agent
announced
the
sale
of
German
translation
rights
in
three
of
his
books
, and
informed
him
that
Swedish
editions
, from
which
he
could
expect
nothing
because
Sweden
was
not
a
party
to
the
Berne
Convention
, were
already
on
the
market
. Then
there
was
a
nominal
request
for
his
permission
for
a
Russian
translation
, that
country
being
likewise
outside
the
Berne
Convention
.
He
turned
to
the
huge
bundle
of
clippings
which
had
come
in
from
his
press
bureau
, and
read
about
himself
and
his
vogue
, which
had
become
a
furore
. All
his
creative
output
had
been
flung
to
the
public
in
one
magnificent
sweep
. That
seemed
to
account
for
it
. He
had
taken
the
public
off
its
feet
, the
way
Kipling
had
, that
time
when
he
lay
near
to
death
and
all
the
mob
, animated
by
a
mob-mind
thought
, began
suddenly
to
read
him
. Martin
remembered
how
that
same
world-mob
, having
read
him
and
acclaimed
him
and
not
understood
him
in
the
least
, had
, abruptly
, a
few
months
later
, flung
itself
upon
him
and
torn
him
to
pieces
. Martin
grinned
at
the
thought
. Who
was
he
that
he
should
not
be
similarly
treated
in
a
few
more
months
? Well
, he
would
fool
the
mob
. He
would
be
away
, in
the
South
Seas
, building
his
grass
house
, trading
for
pearls
and
copra
, jumping
reefs
in
frail
outriggers
, catching
sharks
and
bonitas
, hunting
wild
goats
among
the
cliffs
of
the
valley
that
lay
next
to
the
valley
of
Taiohae
.
In
the
moment
of
that
thought
the
desperateness
of
his
situation
dawned
upon
him
. He
saw
, cleared
eyed
, that
he
was
in
the
Valley
of
the
Shadow
. All
the
life
that
was
in
him
was
fading
, fainting
, making
toward
death
.
He
realized
how
much
he
slept
, and
how
much
he
desired
to
sleep
. Of
old
, he
had
hated
sleep
. It
had
robbed
him
of
precious
moments
of
living
. Four
hours
of
sleep
in
the
twenty-four
had
meant
being
robbed
of
four
hours
of
life
. How
he
had
grudged
sleep
! Now
it
was
life
he
grudged
. Life
was
not
good
; its
taste
in
his
mouth
was
without
tang
,
and
bitter
. This
was
his
peril
. Life
that
did
not
yearn
toward
life
was
in
fair
way
toward
ceasing
. Some
remote
instinct
for
preservation
stirred
in
him
, and
he
knew
he
must
get
away
. He
glanced
about
the
room
, and
the
thought
of
packing
was
burdensome
. Perhaps
it
would
be
better
to
leave
that
to
the
last
. In
the
meantime
he
might
be
getting
an
outfit
.
He
put
on
his
hat
and
went
out
, stopping
in
at
a
gun-store
, where
he
spent
the
remainder
of
the
morning
buying
automatic
rifles
, ammunition
,
and
fishing
tackle
. Fashions
changed
in
trading
, and
he
knew
he
would
have
to
wait
till
he
reached
Tahiti
before
ordering
his
trade-goods
.
They
could
come
up
from
Australia
, anyway
. This
solution
was
a
source
of
pleasure
. He
had
avoided
doing
something
, and
the
doing
of
anything
just
now
was
unpleasant
. He
went
back
to
the
hotel
gladly
, with
a
feeling
of
satisfaction
in
that
the
comfortable
Morris
chair
was
waiting
for
him
; and
he
groaned
inwardly
, on
entering
his
room
, at
sight
of
Joe
in
the
Morris
chair
.
Joe
was
delighted
with
the
laundry
. Everything
was
settled
, and
he
would
enter
into
possession
next
day
. Martin
lay
on
the
bed
, with
closed
eyes
, while
the
other
talked
on
. Martin’s
thoughts
were
far
away—so
far
away
that
he
was
rarely
aware
that
he
was
thinking
. It
was
only
by
an
effort
that
he
occasionally
responded
. And
yet
this
was
Joe
,
whom
he
had
always
liked
. But
Joe
was
too
keen
with
life
. The
boisterous
impact
of
it
on
Martin’s
jaded
mind
was
a
hurt
. It
was
an
aching
probe
to
his
tired
sensitiveness
. When
Joe
reminded
him
that
sometime
in
the
future
they
were
going
to
put
on
the
gloves
together
,
he
could
almost
have
screamed
.
“Remember
, Joe
, you’re
to
run
the
laundry
according
to
those
old
rules
you
used
to
lay
down
at
Shelly
Hot
Springs
,”
he
said
. “No
overworking
.
No
working
at
night
. And
no
children
at
the
mangles
. No
children
anywhere
. And
a
fair
wage
.”
Joe
nodded
and
pulled
out
a
note-book
.
“Look
at
here
. I
was
workin’
out
them
rules
before
breakfast
this
A
.M
.
What
d’ye
think
of
them
?”
He
read
them
aloud
, and
Martin
approved
, worrying
at
the
same
time
as
to
when
Joe
would
take
himself
off
.
It
was
late
afternoon
when
he
awoke
. Slowly
the
fact
of
life
came
back
to
him
. He
glanced
about
the
room
. Joe
had
evidently
stolen
away
after
he
had
dozed
off
. That
was
considerate
of
Joe
, he
thought
. Then
he
closed
his
eyes
and
slept
again
.
In
the
days
that
followed
Joe
was
too
busy
organizing
and
taking
hold
of
the
laundry
to
bother
him
much
; and
it
was
not
until
the
day
before
sailing
that
the
newspapers
made
the
announcement
that
he
had
taken
passage
on
the
_Mariposa_
. Once
, when
the
instinct
of
preservation
fluttered
, he
went
to
a
doctor
and
underwent
a
searching
physical
examination
. Nothing
could
be
found
the
matter
with
him
. His
heart
and
lungs
were
pronounced
magnificent
. Every
organ
, so
far
as
the
doctor
could
know
, was
normal
and
was
working
normally
.
“There
is
nothing
the
matter
with
you
, Mr
. Eden
,”
he
said
, “positively
nothing
the
matter
with
you
. You
are
in
the
pink
of
condition
.
Candidly
, I
envy
you
your
health
. It
is
superb
. Look
at
that
chest
.
There
, and
in
your
stomach
, lies
the
secret
of
your
remarkable
constitution
. Physically
, you
are
a
man
in
a
thousand—in
ten
thousand
.
Barring
accidents
, you
should
live
to
be
a
hundred
.”
And
Martin
knew
that
Lizzie’s
diagnosis
had
been
correct
. Physically
he
was
all
right
. It
was
his
“think-machine”
that
had
gone
wrong
, and
there
was
no
cure
for
that
except
to
get
away
to
the
South
Seas
. The
trouble
was
that
now
, on
the
verge
of
departure
, he
had
no
desire
to
go
. The
South
Seas
charmed
him
no
more
than
did
bourgeois
civilization
.
There
was
no
zest
in
the
thought
of
departure
, while
the
act
of
departure
appalled
him
as
a
weariness
of
the
flesh
. He
would
have
felt
better
if
he
were
already
on
board
and
gone
.
The
last
day
was
a
sore
trial
. Having
read
of
his
sailing
in
the
morning
papers
, Bernard
Higginbotham
, Gertrude
, and
all
the
family
came
to
say
good-by
, as
did
Hermann
von
Schmidt
and
Marian
. Then
there
was
business
to
be
transacted
, bills
to
be
paid
, and
everlasting
reporters
to
be
endured
. He
said
good-by
to
Lizzie
Connolly
, abruptly
, at
the
entrance
to
night
school
, and
hurried
away
. At
the
hotel
he
found
Joe
,
too
busy
all
day
with
the
laundry
to
have
come
to
him
earlier
. It
was
the
last
straw
, but
Martin
gripped
the
arms
of
his
chair
and
talked
and
listened
for
half
an
hour
.
“You
know
, Joe
,”
he
said
, “that
you
are
not
tied
down
to
that
laundry
.
There
are
no
strings
on
it
. You
can
sell
it
any
time
and
blow
the
money
. Any
time
you
get
sick
of
it
and
want
to
hit
the
road
, just
pull
out
. Do
what
will
make
you
the
happiest
.”
Joe
shook
his
head
.
“No
more
road
in
mine
, thank
you
kindly
. Hoboin’s
all
right
, exceptin’
for
one
thing—the
girls
. I
can’t
help
it
, but
I’m
a
ladies’
man
. I
can’t
get
along
without
’em
, and
you’ve
got
to
get
along
without
’em
when
you’re
hoboin’
. The
times
I’ve
passed
by
houses
where
dances
an’
parties
was
goin’
on
, an’
heard
the
women
laugh
, an’
saw
their
white
dresses
and
smiling
faces
through
the
windows—Gee
! I
tell
you
them
moments
was
plain
hell
. I
like
dancin’
an’
picnics
, an’
walking
in
the
moonlight
, an’
all
the
rest
too
well
. Me
for
the
laundry
, and
a
good
front
, with
big
iron
dollars
clinkin’
in
my
jeans
. I
seen
a
girl
already
, just
yesterday
, and
, d’ye
know
, I’m
feelin’
already
I’d
just
as
soon
marry
her
as
not
. I’ve
ben
whistlin’
all
day
at
the
thought
of
it
. She’s
a
beaut
, with
the
kindest
eyes
and
softest
voice
you
ever
heard
. Me
for
her
, you
can
stack
on
that
. Say
, why
don’t
you
get
married
with
all
this
money
to
burn
? You
could
get
the
finest
girl
in
the
land
.”
Martin
shook
his
head
with
a
smile
, but
in
his
secret
heart
he
was
wondering
why
any
man
wanted
to
marry
. It
seemed
an
amazing
and
incomprehensible
thing
.
From
the
deck
of
the
_Mariposa_
, at
the
sailing
hour
, he
saw
Lizzie
Connolly
hiding
in
the
skirts
of
the
crowd
on
the
wharf
. Take
her
with
you
, came
the
thought
. It
is
easy
to
be
kind
. She
will
be
supremely
happy
. It
was
almost
a
temptation
one
moment
, and
the
succeeding
moment
it
became
a
terror
. He
was
in
a
panic
at
the
thought
of
it
. His
tired
soul
cried
out
in
protest
. He
turned
away
from
the
rail
with
a
groan
,
muttering
, “Man
, you
are
too
sick
, you
are
too
sick
.”
He
fled
to
his
stateroom
, where
he
lurked
until
the
steamer
was
clear
of
the
dock
. In
the
dining
saloon
, at
luncheon
, he
found
himself
in
the
place
of
honor
, at
the
captain’s
right
; and
he
was
not
long
in
discovering
that
he
was
the
great
man
on
board
. But
no
more
unsatisfactory
great
man
ever
sailed
on
a
ship
. He
spent
the
afternoon
in
a
deck-chair
, with
closed
eyes
, dozing
brokenly
most
of
the
time
,
and
in
the
evening
went
early
to
bed
.
After
the
second
day
, recovered
from
seasickness
, the
full
passenger
list
was
in
evidence
, and
the
more
he
saw
of
the
passengers
the
more
he
disliked
them
. Yet
he
knew
that
he
did
them
injustice
. They
were
good
and
kindly
people
, he
forced
himself
to
acknowledge
, and
in
the
moment
of
acknowledgment
he
qualified—good
and
kindly
like
all
the
bourgeoisie
, with
all
the
psychological
cramp
and
intellectual
futility
of
their
kind
, they
bored
him
when
they
talked
with
him
, their
little
superficial
minds
were
so
filled
with
emptiness
; while
the
boisterous
high
spirits
and
the
excessive
energy
of
the
younger
people
shocked
him
. They
were
never
quiet
, ceaselessly
playing
deck-quoits
, tossing
rings
, promenading
, or
rushing
to
the
rail
with
loud
cries
to
watch
the
leaping
porpoises
and
the
first
schools
of
flying
fish
.
He
slept
much
. After
breakfast
he
sought
his
deck-chair
with
a
magazine
he
never
finished
. The
printed
pages
tired
him
. He
puzzled
that
men
found
so
much
to
write
about
, and
, puzzling
, dozed
in
his
chair
. When
the
gong
awoke
him
for
luncheon
, he
was
irritated
that
he
must
awaken
.
There
was
no
satisfaction
in
being
awake
.
Once
, he
tried
to
arouse
himself
from
his
lethargy
, and
went
forward
into
the
forecastle
with
the
sailors
. But
the
breed
of
sailors
seemed
to
have
changed
since
the
days
he
had
lived
in
the
forecastle
. He
could
find
no
kinship
with
these
stolid-faced
, ox-minded
bestial
creatures
.
He
was
in
despair
. Up
above
nobody
had
wanted
Martin
Eden
for
his
own
sake
, and
he
could
not
go
back
to
those
of
his
own
class
who
had
wanted
him
in
the
past
. He
did
not
want
them
. He
could
not
stand
them
any
more
than
he
could
stand
the
stupid
first-cabin
passengers
and
the
riotous
young
people
.
Life
was
to
him
like
strong
, white
light
that
hurts
the
tired
eyes
of
a
sick
person
. During
every
conscious
moment
life
blazed
in
a
raw
glare
around
him
and
upon
him
. It
hurt
. It
hurt
intolerably
. It
was
the
first
time
in
his
life
that
Martin
had
travelled
first
class
. On
ships
at
sea
he
had
always
been
in
the
forecastle
, the
steerage
, or
in
the
black
depths
of
the
coal-hold
, passing
coal
. In
those
days
, climbing
up
the
iron
ladders
out
the
pit
of
stifling
heat
, he
had
often
caught
glimpses
of
the
passengers
, in
cool
white
, doing
nothing
but
enjoy
themselves
,
under
awnings
spread
to
keep
the
sun
and
wind
away
from
them
, with
subservient
stewards
taking
care
of
their
every
want
and
whim
, and
it
had
seemed
to
him
that
the
realm
in
which
they
moved
and
had
their
being
was
nothing
else
than
paradise
. Well
, here
he
was
, the
great
man
on
board
, in
the
midmost
centre
of
it
, sitting
at
the
captain’s
right
hand
, and
yet
vainly
harking
back
to
forecastle
and
stoke-hole
in
quest
of
the
Paradise
he
had
lost
. He
had
found
no
new
one
, and
now
he
could
not
find
the
old
one
.
He
strove
to
stir
himself
and
find
something
to
interest
him
. He
ventured
the
petty
officers’
mess
, and
was
glad
to
get
away
. He
talked
with
a
quartermaster
off
duty
, an
intelligent
man
who
promptly
prodded
him
with
the
socialist
propaganda
and
forced
into
his
hands
a
bunch
of
leaflets
and
pamphlets
. He
listened
to
the
man
expounding
the
slave-morality
, and
as
he
listened
, he
thought
languidly
of
his
own
Nietzsche
philosophy
. But
what
was
it
worth
, after
all
? He
remembered
one
of
Nietzsche’s
mad
utterances
wherein
that
madman
had
doubted
truth
. And
who
was
to
say
? Perhaps
Nietzsche
had
been
right
. Perhaps
there
was
no
truth
in
anything
, no
truth
in
truth—no
such
thing
as
truth
. But
his
mind
wearied
quickly
, and
he
was
content
to
go
back
to
his
chair
and
doze
.
Miserable
as
he
was
on
the
steamer
, a
new
misery
came
upon
him
. What
when
the
steamer
reached
Tahiti
? He
would
have
to
go
ashore
. He
would
have
to
order
his
trade-goods
, to
find
a
passage
on
a
schooner
to
the
Marquesas
, to
do
a
thousand
and
one
things
that
were
awful
to
contemplate
. Whenever
he
steeled
himself
deliberately
to
think
, he
could
see
the
desperate
peril
in
which
he
stood
. In
all
truth
, he
was
in
the
Valley
of
the
Shadow
, and
his
danger
lay
in
that
he
was
not
afraid
. If
he
were
only
afraid
, he
would
make
toward
life
. Being
unafraid
, he
was
drifting
deeper
into
the
shadow
. He
found
no
delight
in
the
old
familiar
things
of
life
. The
_Mariposa_
was
now
in
the
northeast
trades
, and
this
wine
of
wind
, surging
against
him
, irritated
him
. He
had
his
chair
moved
to
escape
the
embrace
of
this
lusty
comrade
of
old
days
and
nights
.
The
day
the
_Mariposa_
entered
the
doldrums
, Martin
was
more
miserable
than
ever
. He
could
no
longer
sleep
. He
was
soaked
with
sleep
, and
perforce
he
must
now
stay
awake
and
endure
the
white
glare
of
life
. He
moved
about
restlessly
. The
air
was
sticky
and
humid
, and
the
rain-squalls
were
unrefreshing
. He
ached
with
life
. He
walked
around
the
deck
until
that
hurt
too
much
, then
sat
in
his
chair
until
he
was
compelled
to
walk
again
. He
forced
himself
at
last
to
finish
the
magazine
, and
from
the
steamer
library
he
culled
several
volumes
of
poetry
. But
they
could
not
hold
him
, and
once
more
he
took
to
walking
.
He
stayed
late
on
deck
, after
dinner
, but
that
did
not
help
him
, for
when
he
went
below
, he
could
not
sleep
. This
surcease
from
life
had
failed
him
. It
was
too
much
. He
turned
on
the
electric
light
and
tried
to
read
. One
of
the
volumes
was
a
Swinburne
. He
lay
in
bed
, glancing
through
its
pages
, until
suddenly
he
became
aware
that
he
was
reading
with
interest
. He
finished
the
stanza
, attempted
to
read
on
, then
came
back
to
it
. He
rested
the
book
face
downward
on
his
breast
and
fell
to
thinking
. That
was
it
. The
very
thing
. Strange
that
it
had
never
come
to
him
before
. That
was
the
meaning
of
it
all
; he
had
been
drifting
that
way
all
the
time
, and
now
Swinburne
showed
him
that
it
was
the
happy
way
out
. He
wanted
rest
, and
here
was
rest
awaiting
him
. He
glanced
at
the
open
port-hole
. Yes
, it
was
large
enough
. For
the
first
time
in
weeks
he
felt
happy
. At
last
he
had
discovered
the
cure
of
his
ill
. He
picked
up
the
book
and
read
the
stanza
slowly
aloud
:-
“‘From
too
much
love
of
living
,
From
hope
and
fear
set
free
,
We
thank
with
brief
thanksgiving
Whatever
gods
may
be
That
no
life
lives
forever
;
That
dead
men
rise
up
never
;
That
even
the
weariest
river
Winds
somewhere
safe
to
sea
.’”
He
looked
again
at
the
open
port
. Swinburne
had
furnished
the
key
. Life
was
ill
, or
, rather
, it
had
become
ill—an
unbearable
thing
. “That
dead
men
rise
up
never
!”
That
line
stirred
him
with
a
profound
feeling
of
gratitude
. It
was
the
one
beneficent
thing
in
the
universe
. When
life
became
an
aching
weariness
, death
was
ready
to
soothe
away
to
everlasting
sleep
. But
what
was
he
waiting
for
? It
was
time
to
go
.
He
arose
and
thrust
his
head
out
the
port-hole
, looking
down
into
the
milky
wash
. The
_Mariposa_
was
deeply
loaded
, and
, hanging
by
his
hands
, his
feet
would
be
in
the
water
. He
could
slip
in
noiselessly
. No
one
would
hear
. A
smother
of
spray
dashed
up
, wetting
his
face
. It
tasted
salt
on
his
lips
, and
the
taste
was
good
. He
wondered
if
he
ought
to
write
a
swan-song
, but
laughed
the
thought
away
. There
was
no
time
. He
was
too
impatient
to
be
gone
.
Turning
off
the
light
in
his
room
so
that
it
might
not
betray
him
, he
went
out
the
port-hole
feet
first
. His
shoulders
stuck
, and
he
forced
himself
back
so
as
to
try
it
with
one
arm
down
by
his
side
. A
roll
of
the
steamer
aided
him
, and
he
was
through
, hanging
by
his
hands
. When
his
feet
touched
the
sea
, he
let
go
. He
was
in
a
milky
froth
of
water
.
The
side
of
the
_Mariposa_
rushed
past
him
like
a
dark
wall
, broken
here
and
there
by
lighted
ports
. She
was
certainly
making
time
. Almost
before
he
knew
it
, he
was
astern
, swimming
gently
on
the
foam-crackling
surface
.
A
bonita
struck
at
his
white
body
, and
he
laughed
aloud
. It
had
taken
a
piece
out
, and
the
sting
of
it
reminded
him
of
why
he
was
there
. In
the
work
to
do
he
had
forgotten
the
purpose
of
it
. The
lights
of
the
_Mariposa_
were
growing
dim
in
the
distance
, and
there
he
was
, swimming
confidently
, as
though
it
were
his
intention
to
make
for
the
nearest
land
a
thousand
miles
or
so
away
.
It
was
the
automatic
instinct
to
live
. He
ceased
swimming
, but
the
moment
he
felt
the
water
rising
above
his
mouth
the
hands
struck
out
sharply
with
a
lifting
movement
. The
will
to
live
, was
his
thought
, and
the
thought
was
accompanied
by
a
sneer
. Well
, he
had
will
,—ay
, will
strong
enough
that
with
one
last
exertion
it
could
destroy
itself
and
cease
to
be
.
He
changed
his
position
to
a
vertical
one
. He
glanced
up
at
the
quiet
stars
, at
the
same
time
emptying
his
lungs
of
air
. With
swift
, vigorous
propulsion
of
hands
and
feet
, he
lifted
his
shoulders
and
half
his
chest
out
of
water
. This
was
to
gain
impetus
for
the
descent
. Then
he
let
himself
go
and
sank
without
movement
, a
white
statue
, into
the
sea
.
He
breathed
in
the
water
deeply
, deliberately
, after
the
manner
of
a
man
taking
an
anaesthetic
. When
he
strangled
, quite
involuntarily
his
arms
and
legs
clawed
the
water
and
drove
him
up
to
the
surface
and
into
the
clear
sight
of
the
stars
.
The
will
to
live
, he
thought
disdainfully
, vainly
endeavoring
not
to
breathe
the
air
into
his
bursting
lungs
. Well
, he
would
have
to
try
a
new
way
. He
filled
his
lungs
with
air
, filled
them
full
. This
supply
would
take
him
far
down
. He
turned
over
and
went
down
head
first
,
swimming
with
all
his
strength
and
all
his
will
. Deeper
and
deeper
he
went
. His
eyes
were
open
, and
he
watched
the
ghostly
, phosphorescent
trails
of
the
darting
bonita
. As
he
swam
, he
hoped
that
they
would
not
strike
at
him
, for
it
might
snap
the
tension
of
his
will
. But
they
did
not
strike
, and
he
found
time
to
be
grateful
for
this
last
kindness
of
life
.
Down
, down
, he
swam
till
his
arms
and
legs
grew
tired
and
hardly
moved
.
He
knew
that
he
was
deep
. The
pressure
on
his
ear-drums
was
a
pain
, and
there
was
a
buzzing
in
his
head
. His
endurance
was
faltering
, but
he
compelled
his
arms
and
legs
to
drive
him
deeper
until
his
will
snapped
and
the
air
drove
from
his
lungs
in
a
great
explosive
rush
. The
bubbles
rubbed
and
bounded
like
tiny
balloons
against
his
cheeks
and
eyes
as
they
took
their
upward
flight
. Then
came
pain
and
strangulation
. This
hurt
was
not
death
, was
the
thought
that
oscillated
through
his
reeling
consciousness
. Death
did
not
hurt
. It
was
life
, the
pangs
of
life
, this
awful
, suffocating
feeling
; it
was
the
last
blow
life
could
deal
him
.
His
wilful
hands
and
feet
began
to
beat
and
churn
about
, spasmodically
and
feebly
. But
he
had
fooled
them
and
the
will
to
live
that
made
them
beat
and
churn
. He
was
too
deep
down
. They
could
never
bring
him
to
the
surface
. He
seemed
floating
languidly
in
a
sea
of
dreamy
vision
. Colors
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